Echoes From Trinity County - Memories of a country life

When I was a boy we lived for a few years in the Piney Woods of East Texas in a shack of a house with no indoor plumbing, no running water, a wood stove in the front room and chickens roaming the back yard.  A milk cow resided in the barn, pigs in the pen and corn in the field.  We moved there from our suburban home in Houson that lacked none of the modern conveniences one would expect in Texas' largest city.  Years later I came to understand that those three years were my mother's nightmare.  For me, they were some of the best years of my life.

During those years I was able to crack open a door just a bit to the world that my father grew up in. It was a fascinating place, where life was lived close to the earth, a sometimes hard and forbidding world where every success was earned and every failure measured against survival.  For me it was a time of discovery and exploration and kinship with the natural world that I've not known since.  There was something honest and true about those years that were unique to that place and time.  It was a time indelibly etched into my consciousness.  A time I'll never forget.

I'm transcribing my father's memories, written by hand many years ago, and as I typed each page I was transported into that mystical world of my childhood once again, where, for a few years I came to know the kind of world that informed my dad.

Here are a few excerpts from his childhood memories, exactly as he wrote them:

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Me and my two cousins, Bobby and Pal, always ran around together.  When we were little, Ma and Aunt Janey said we’d leave in the morning and sometimes we would not come home ‘til late afternoon.  Sometimes we would see some of Finis Tullos’ sow hogs with pigs and Bobby would put Uncle Wade’s mark on Finis’ pigs.  After I got bigger, I often wondered what Finis thought about Wade’s pigs following his sow.

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I remember one Christmas Eve we would hang up our stockings over the fireplace and the next morning they would be full of fruit and nuts.  We never got any toys ‘til daddy started working at the shipyard.  Our toy was a Garrett snuff bottle.  Sometimes when a wagon wheel went bad we would take a rim off of it.  The wheel was about ten inches around.  We would take a Prince Albert tobacco can and beat it flat, turn it up on two sides and nail it to a long piece of wood so we could roll it.

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Me and my cousin Paul, we started smoking when we got big enough to roll our own.  We used to steal eggs and take them over to Albert Terry’s store and trade them for Prince Albert papers.  Me and Pal used to go down to Uncle Sterling’s.  He had a hand roller.  You could roll ‘em and they would look like store bought.  I went down to Uncle Sterling’s and I liked it so well I would get off the school bus every day and stay down there. 

Daddy told Orville not to let me get off the school bus but I would get off anyway.  I stayed about two weeks.  One day, daddy rode his horse down to Clarence Odom’s store – it was about a five-mile ride.  He made Orville ride the horse back home and he got on the school bus with me.  When we got to Uncle Sterling’s, he asked me if I was going to get off.

I said, “No, I believe I will go home today.”

Polie heard daddy talking to me.  He went home and told Aunt Janey that Uncle Athena said he was going to give Billy some medicine when they got home.  I did not get off the school bus no more.

One - Two - Buckle My Shoe

My five-year old grandchildren, Evan and Brianna, began kindergarten recently.   They’ve entered the brave new world of primary school and it’s fascinating to watch the rapid infusion of knowledge as they process information and conceptualize its meaning.  Of particular interest to me is arithmetic.

While we might consider mathematics to be grouped in the sciences, it isn’t.  Math is not based on science, nor is it a science in itself, per se.  Math is more closely aligned with principles of philosophy, specifically logic.  There is a unique quality to numbers and their manipulation that set them apart from other forms of mental reasoning.

Consider the concept of numbers themselves.  Numbers are unchangeable.  The number 3 (and all numbers) are never modified or changed into anything else.  Nor is the number 3 interested in the scientific method or the concept of true and false which that approach implies.  One can never  “prove” or “disprove” the number 3. The idea itself seems silly because there is no need for verification of its truth value.  It is an “a priori” truth, a valid expression that is known without reference to any external experience.  And numbers have the unusual property of being independent of everything else.  The number 3 will remain the same for all eternity, regardless what changes occur in the universe at large.  Even if all of humanity ceases to exist, the number 3 will remain.  How can this be?  Aren’t numbers a human convention, simply a way that we’ve developed to explain certain aspects of the world around us?  To suggest that numbers transcend human thought is to give them a kind of independent reality of their own.

In one respect, that is exactly what numbers are.  Consider how we conceptualize arithmetic, specifically counting.  It “appears” that young children learn to count by associating a series of objects with corresponding words.  If there are three balls on the table, the first ball is labeled “one” the second ball is labeled “two” and the third ball is labeled “three”.  But it’s more complex than that, because removing balls “one” and “three” doesn’t mean that ball “two” represents two balls.  Ball “two” has now become ball “one” if there are no more balls on the table because it’s not about labeling objects at all.  Although outwardly it appears to be a verbal association, what is actually happening internally is quite different.  The child is really applying two concepts that already exist prior to any experience of the world around them:  the concepts of space and time.  

When any of us has an empirical encounter, what we would describe as an “everyday experience”, (let’s suppose our attention is directed to three balls on a table) that encounter presupposes two underlying concepts even as the experience itself unfolds. 

Firstly, we experience all objects as they relate to space.  Everything that is outside of ourselves is known as it appears to us in a three-dimensional reality.  Even if only one object is before us, it is qualified in our mind asexisting in space.  But what about “space” itself?  How do we come to know that property?  Or can it properly be called a “property” of our experiences at all?  Let’s remove all objects from space.  There is now nothing before us except emptiness.  There is nothing to experience.  Has space disappeared?  Has it ceased to exist?  Surely not, because as soon as any object again appears before us, we experience it immediately and empirically as it is known to us in space.  So, while space itself does not constitute an experience, it is a necessary prerequisite in order to HAVE an experience.  We never experience objects outside of space.  If that is so, if the concept of space is a prerequisite in order to have an experience, it must be known prior to experience in some essential way.  Concepts that are known prior to experience are given the label “a priori” (before experience) to differentiate them from concepts known after experience, or “posteriori”.  These two terms are important because they determine how reality works and what we can truthfully assert that we can know.

Secondly, our experiences are given to us as they relate to time.  Everything outside of ourselves is known as it is arranged “before”, “now” or “after”.  Time itself is conceived as past, present or future.  Objects that are not static experiences are perceived with properties of motion, which is a linear representation of the concept of time.  Even the primary act of arranging objects of our experience requires us to place them in some kind of order, either by counting or by assembling them in a procession of “before” and “after”.  Since we cannot perceive all objects of our experiences simultaneously, we utilize the concepts of space and time that we know “a priori” to give meaning to an experience.

We see three balls on a table.  Our ability to define the experience as “balls on a table” requires that we have an inherent concept of space.  Our ability to define the experience as “three balls on a table” requires that we have an inherent concept of time, since what are “three balls” except one ball, then another ball, then another ball – in other words, a linear progression of three objects in a row.

Now, back to kindergarten.

My grandkids can count three balls on a table.  (Even Abby, at younger than two years, can perform this feat).  But counting doesn’t rely on objects to have validity.  Remove the balls and my grandkids can still count (and they love to show how “high” they can count) with no objects at all and the meaning hasn’t changed because the underlying principles do not require an external world of objects.  They are realized internally, without reference to experience.   Arithmetic is a tangible expression of the properties of space and time and as such, it gives substance to these two concepts which are difficult to know on their own. 

All of this is nice and extremely boring, you say, but so what? What does it matter?  Well, it matters because of the postmodern world in which we live.  Science and the scientific method have been elevated in our culture to the level of a demigod, with the assumption that only what we can show through experiment and conclusion is regarded as truth.  Mathematical truths reveal an opposing reality, one that presupposes a component to human reasoning that is not dependent on the empirical method or scientific inquiry at all. 

If we understand the concepts of space and time as “a priori” truths and express their meaning through the arithmetic of counting - independent of material objects - the question arises as to the origin of these concepts.  If we have knowledge of these concepts as independent of empirical encounters, if we intuitively “know” these concepts prior to our experience, if our experiences are dependent on these concepts in order for our senses to give meaning to our impressions, then we must search for their origins outside of our daily experiences.  Clearly, we cannot utilize the scientific method, since that method, by definition, is limited to only what we can conclude from our experiences. 

If we know a truth prior to our experiences, its origin must be prior to our experiences.   And that is the crack that reveals the weakness of materialism, and the reason why our search for meaning will always extend beyond the physical.  We may not be aware of the underlying reasons why we aren’t content with the limits of science to explain reality, but the nagging sense that there are truths beyond what science can tell us weighs on our mind.   Perhaps the concepts of space and time and their creative expression through one of our most elementary ideas – counting – ruminate just below the surface of our collective experiences, tugging at our consciousness and whispering faintly that our existence begins not as a tabula rasa but with a set of tools ready for our purpose. 

Any kindergartener can help point us in the right direction.  Just listen to them count.

First Snowfall

He walked with purpose, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk, counting each step as he neared the corner.  There were forty-seven paces from the bus stop to the landing of the apartment building.   Each evening he walked and counted, his eyes fastened on the pavement, moving neither too quickly nor too slowly.   A bitter wind cut through the threadbare wool of his jacket and he thought of the warm tea that he would share with Leila upon his arrival.  Thirty-six.  Thirty-seven.  Snowflakes drifted onto the sidewalk and he planted his feet more firmly with each step.  It would not do to slide on a patch of ice.  It would not do at all.  Forty-one.  Forty-two.  Honey.  He would sweeten their tea with honey this evening.  He and Leila would celebrate this first snow of the season with warm honeyed tea. 

Even with his head down he could see the red-gray brick of the building in his periphery but he already knew he was near the landing.  Forty-five. Forty-six.  Forty-seven.  Extending a plastic card that he had gripped firmly in his right hand since exiting the bus, he swiped it across the surface of a metal device attached to the doorframe of the apartment house.  An automated voice announced “Accepted”, releasing the locking mechanism and allowing him to enter. 

His rooms were on the fourth floor.   The elevator had long since succumbed to disrepair, so he made his way up the stairs, one flight after another.  There was no need to count these steps although he knew how many there were.  And no need as well to fix his eyes downward.  There was relative safety in the building; even more once he crossed the threshold to his flat.

The fourth landing approached and he imagined the fragrant, meaty scent of lamb roasting on a bed of potatoes and carrots emanating from the apartment.  He knew  there was no roast tonight but the thought brought a smile to his weathered face.  It was his habit to think of something especially nice as he neared the apartment door.   It was important that Leila see him smile.   She worried too much already and it would serve no good purpose to burden her with a frown.  The thought of roasted lamb always made him smile.

Stopping at the third door from the stairwell, he swiped the same plastic card across a locking device identical to the one at the front entrance.    A clicking sound signaled its release and he entered the apartment.

There was no coat closet, the entrance giving way immediately to a small common room that served as the living and kitchen space.  Instead he had fastened a nice wooden rack on the wall to the right of the door where hung an umbrella, a pair of knitted mittens and a polyester rain jacket.   Removing his winter coat, he collared it on one of the rack hooks and stood facing the wall.  For a moment he stood silently, listening.  Looking to his left, then his right, he faced the wall again and lifted his gaze above the coat rack.  He could almost see the crucifix hanging there.  Closing his eyes he made the sign of the cross, finishing by pressing his fingers to his lips.  He gazed upward again at the faint outline barely visible against the fading paint of the wall.  The crucifix had been removed long ago but that mattered little.  It would serve no good purpose to ruminate about the past.

A porcelain kettle rested on the kitchen hot plate and he was pleased to see whiffs of steam escaping from its spout.  He had rigged a timer to the electrical extension that  turned on the hot plate at precisely the time the bus dropped him at his stop.  The little analog device ticked away for twenty minutes before disconnecting the circuit.   Two cups resting on saucers were already placed on the table in the center of the room, each one holding a day-old teabag.  He lifted the kettle and poured boiling water into both cups.  Returning the kettle to the hot plate, he retrieved the small bottle of honey from the cabinet above the sink and deposited a small stream of golden sweetness into each of the teacups.  As he returned the honey to the cupboard, a shadow crossed his field of vision.

Leila appeared from the bedroom.

He smiled broadly as she entered the room and with exaggerated fanfare gestured her to the table.

“Your tea awaits, my lady.”  Bowing, he circled his arm in a broad arc and cocked his head to the side as if sharing a secret.  “A special treat.  We have honeyed tea today.  In honor of the season’s first snow.”

 He pulled the chair out for Leila and made his way round the other side of the table.  “I hope you like it,” he said, settling into his chair. “It’s Earl Grey.  Only the best, of course.”  He knew it was not Earl Grey but a generic and quite bland pekoe blend, the only tea available.   But lighthearted banter made the evenings so much more attractive.

Leila looked radiant, her skin the color of ripened peaches, with a glow about her as if she had spent the day  frolicking in a meadow kissed by the summer sun. Auburn  waves of hair framed her heart-shaped face and cascaded down her shoulders.  She was as beautiful as the day he had first met her sitting in the park, near the bank of the river. 

He sipped his tea as he admired her, thinking of their time together, of the moments they had laughed and loved and cried together.  “I love you, my darling,” he whispered. 

Leila smiled but it was her eyes that he saw and it saddened him.  She worries too much, he thought, but knew that there was reason for her anxiety.   He had told her that it would be okay, that everything would work out.  He disbelieved it, as did she.  But as time passed he became hopeful, then encouraged, and even, at moments, sanguine -  if such a disposition were possible.

Leila was more pragmatic.  Her eyes told him so.

Her tea was getting cold as was the room and he rose to light the space heater situated on the far wall. 

When he returned, Leila had retreated to the bedroom.

Sighing, he fetched the cups from the table and placed them in the sink.  He was hungry but the thought of food sounded foul.  He knew he should eat.  He had lost too much weight already.  Perhaps later. 

He dragged a chair to the single window and pulled back the drapes.  The snow was falling heavily now, billowing white sheets playing against the deep red of a dying sunset.  He sat quietly and watched the flakes as they mounded on the windowsill.  Tomorrow morning everything would be blanketed in thick, soft layers of white and for a few hours the world would be pure, unblemished, the sharp edges and tarnished surfaces transformed into a pristine beauty.

He whispered to himself a verse from the Bible, one that he remembered each year as the first snow descended.   He didn’t know its context and bibles had been removed long ago, but it offered him a sense of serenity as he sat at the window and watched everything slowly, silently become pure.  Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.  Though they are red as crimson, they shall be as wool.

For a time in the morning the snow will offer an illusion; the appearance of a sinless day.

After a long while, he rose from the chair and prepared the apartment for tomorrow.  Turning out the lights, he entered the bedroom and undressed in the dark.  Leila was already asleep as he slipped under the covers and tucked the blanket around him.   Turning to Leila’s side, he held her closely as sleep slowly overtook him.  He knew it was only her pillow that he embraced, Leila having been taken away many months ago.  He had no idea where she was or if she was still alive.  He didn’t have nearly enough money to ask. But the fabric retained her scent, a fragrant smell as of lilacs on a spring day.  It was almost as if she were still here. 

A single tear streamed down his cheek as he began to dream, drifting into a world covered with snow.

Running With Marie Claire

I’m a runner.  I’ve run for most of my adult life.  In parks, around the neighborhood and on countless  treadmills at home and the gym, I run.  At Luci’s suggestion, we began entering races awhile back and I discovered that I was actually good at running.  In our first 5000 meter race, I placed third in my age group.  That’s a nice motivator and now, many races later, my avocation has become one of my passions.  These days I run not only for health and fitness, but to achieve personal goals like improving my pace and participating in endurance runs.  And it just plain feels good when I win another plastic running man statue.

When something is important to you, there’s a tendency to assume that it’s important to other people, as well.  That might be the case.  But more often, probably not.  I discovered that little nugget of truth a few days ago.

Luci and I had finished our weekly shopping trip to H-E-B, which always ends in front of the free blood pressure check kiosk and the magazine racks.  So, while Luci was sitting in the chair taking her blood pressure, I scanned the shelves for this month’s edition of Runners World Magazine.

Runners World is the holy grail of information for amateur and competitive runners.  Each month it lists the major races across the country, offers reviews of running and training shoes, nutrition and training advice as well as some really good motivational articles from the running elite to keep us amateur runners focused and injury-free.  If you’re a runner, it’s one the best tools you can have.

I looked on the left section of the magazine racks, which contained the health and fitness titles.  A number of unnaturally buff guys graced the covers of Men’s Health, Men’s Fitness, Steroid Monthly, Exercises You’ll Never Do Quarterly and Workouts For Gay Guys Pretending To Be Straight.  Hmmm.  No Runners World.

That’s strange, since last month’s edition was right there on the top shelf where it should be.  Onto the next shelf which contained men’s lifestyle magazines.  Maxim,  Esquire, GQ, HQ, IQ, Yachting, Guns & Ammo, Field & Stream, Bow Hunters Bonanza, Fishing For Fun and Profit.  Still no Runners World.

I turned my attention to the last shelf of that section.  The bottom shelf contained magazines for men who only leave the sofa to retrieve a snack from the refrigerator.  I doubted that Runners World would be shelved there, but I scanned the titles anyway.  Monster Truck Mayhem, six different NASCAR editions, Sports Illustrated, Military History and a couple of survivalist titles (or one survivalist title and one Big Foot expose.  I couldn’t be sure).  Runners World?  Nope.

Moving onto the right section, I’m into the women’s health and fitness territory now.  It’s gotta be there.  A dozen women’s health and fitness magazines but no Runners World.  Now I’m starting to frown.

Onto the balance of the women’s interest magazines.  Bridal Monthly, Bridal Quarterly, Bridal Yearly, Wedding Monthly, Bridal’s Yoga Monthly, Better Homes & Gardens, Even Better Yet Homes & Gardens,  Woman’s World,  Martha Stewarts’ Living, Martha Stewarts’ Living In Jail, Oprah, Oprah 2.0, Dreaming You Are Oprah.   There were lots of women’s magazines but no Runners World.

Luci finished taking her blood pressure and walked up to the magazine rack.

“Oh, look, there’s the first edition of HGTV’s new magazine.”  She pulled it from the shelf, excited to show me an article about a home in The Heights neighborhood of Houston.  “It’s their first month and they’re highlighting The Heights.  Isn’t that cool?”  Luci’s grandparents had lived in The Heights and she carries fond memories of those days and the special relationship with that eclectic, north Houston neighborhood.

I mumbled something appropriate, irritated that H-E-B  wasn’t stocking Runners World this month and then my eye caught it. 

“What?” I reached for the magazine and held it against my chest like a holy text that had been desecrated. “Do you see that?  Do you see where they put my magazine?  Why is Runners World in the women’s beauty section? “  Luci was thumbing through the HGTV magazine looking for the article on The Heights.  Clearly she didn’t hear me or she would be as outraged as I was.  “Look.”  I pointed to the shelf.  “They stuffed Runners World between Glamour and Marie Claire.  Are they nuts?”

“Here it is,” Luci said.  “The article on The Heights.  Isn’t that amazing that The Heights is featured in their first month?”

“Sure,” I responded.  “Did you see where they placed Runners World?  It’s ridiculous.”

Luci glanced at the shelf of magazines but she didn’t seem to understand what had been done.

Showing me the picture of a nice, mid-century, Arts & Crafts home featured in the HGTV spread, she commented again how impressed she was that the Houston neighborhood was the focus of a new national monthly.

“That’s nice.  The Heights are nice,” I said, looking at the photo spread.  I turned my attention to the magazine rack once more and shook my head.  “Oh, I get it.  There’s a picture of a girl running on the cover of Runners World this month, so they think it’s just for women.  So why didn’t they place it with women’s fitness.  Shoving it between Glamour  and  Marie Clare?  Seriously?  What dopes,” I mumbled.

We headed for the checkout and I carefully placed Runners World gently and with dignity in the basket.  “Dopey stockers,” I said again for good measure.

As we finished our transaction and made our way to the exit, I saw what appeared to be the manager, speaking to a customer.  I thought of taking a moment to explain to him that running was a sport, not a beauty treatment, and just because this month’s cover showed a young lady running instead of a photo-shopped picture of some muscle-bound steroid-crazed model who’s probably never run a race in his life, it was still a sports and fitness magazine, not a guide to the debutante’s ball and he might want to explain that to the genius in charge of the magazine rack, but I figured that it wouldn’t do much good.  Walking across the parking lot, we reached the car and began loading the groceries in the cargo compartment.   “I’d like to see the moron that put my magazine in the beauty section run a half-marathon.”

Luci smiled at me as I closed the cargo door.  “Wouldn’t even last through a 5k, I’m guessing,”

 she said.

I nodded and smiled back.  “Darn right.”   

“By the way,” I asked as we left the parking lot, “who the heck is Marie Claire?”

If It's On A Church Sign, It Must Be True

I passed a church today whose sign informed me that I’m going to hell.   The message wasn’t quite that direct, of course.  It was couched in the semi-sweet chocolate of religious metaphor mixed with a generous dose of homey satire but its underlying message was clear: I shouldn’t expect to be standing in the line that enters the pearly gates after my demise.  It’s not that I might make it to the line and get stuck there, like someone waiting outside the new, hip nightclub trying to persuade the doorman to let him across the rope.  Nope.  According to the sign, I’ll be at a different address, searching for some sunscreen with an SPF factor of a zillion.

To be fair, the church sign didn’t specifically mention my name in its message of condemnation.  It wasn’t directed at me personally.  It was for everyone that passed by – everyone that failed to do or act or think in the way that the church sign announced must be done to avoid a fiery future.  It isn’t just me that is going to hell.  Lots of us are.   

This isn’t the first church sign that I’ve read which announces death and destruction to those who read it.  They’re very common.   There’s one particular church in our community whose pronouncements are so boldly acidic that I can only imagine how miserable and depressing a community of believers must be that would post such bitter messages.

The thing that strikes me odd about these church signs is that everyone already knows they’re imperfect.  Everyone is fully aware of their faults, their shortcomings, their failures to do the right thing at the appropriate times, the struggle to have integrity and honor and commitment to a goal higher than oneself.   And for some people, their life situation is so difficult , they probably think they’re in hell right now.  None of us really needs a church sign to reinforce our insecurities, self-doubt and anxiety.   That’s what existentialist philosophers are for.

What many people could benefit from is a word of encouragement, an acknowledgement that their life has meaning and a hopeful optimism that values kindness above condemnation.   That, after all, is the message that Jesus told his followers to spread – the good news.  “I have not come to condemn the world,” Jesus is quoted as saying in John’s gospel.

Imagine that.  A church sign that says we are your neighbors not your judge.  If they could just get that part right, there is hope that they could act on another of Jesus’ sayings:  “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

The Less-Traveled Road

The Road Not Taken

Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Magic Carpet Rides

Abby sits in the middle of the wagon while I pull her around the yard, down the driveway, along the street in front of our house and back to where we started.   She occasionally points here or there with the confident authority of an eighteen-month-old and tells me something in gibberish.  We trace this path several times and I ask if she’s ready to do something else.  She wags her head “no”, which is her first answer to every question these days, so we continue.   A moment later she reconsiders her response and begins climbing over the side, unconcerned that I’m still pulling it.  I stop and help her from her little green coach and she holds my hand as we head to the garage to store the wagon in its place.   Another journey completed.

I haven’t kept count but this is probably the hundredth-something time that I’ve chauffeured one of my grandkids in this wagon.  And the hundredth-something time we’ve shared this experience together. 

Abby is the latest in a line of passengers that began fourteen years ago when Damian was a toddler.   Sitting in the well of a brand new Step 2 wagon, propped up with pillows and blankets, we embarked on our journeys.  When he was old enough not to wobble too much, we left the pillows behind but carried our sense of adventure with us.   Around the yard a half-dozen times just for fun.   Four blocks to the neighborhood park.  A little farther to the elementary school play yard.   An expedition to the distant convenience store to retrieve candy bars in winter and ice cream in summer.   Racing down the sidewalk for half a block, zig-zagging from side to side.  When the wagon came out of the garage, an adventure  of some sort  would likely follow. 

Along came Brianna and Evan and out came the pillows and blankets again until before long they were old enough to negotiate among themselves who would sit  in front and who would sit in back.  Early one  Saturday morning the three of us, Brianna, Evan and myself, set out on an odyssey to the faraway land of the donut shop.  Clad in pjs, wrapped in blankets, they huddled in the wagon, discussing the relative merits of sprinkles and chocolate as we coursed our way through the neighborhood and across the strip shopping center to the counter of breakfast delights. 

The sturdy green wagon has been absolutely great.  Solid and well-built, it’s practically indestructible.  Its life seems endless and it’s age is apparent only by its fading color and the scuff marks of time.   To paraphrase the chorus of a children’s song, the wheels on the bus have gone round and round for close to fifteen years and they show no sign of stopping.

Yes, it’s been and continues to be a great wagon.  And the truly wonderful thing is that the better part of its purpose is also as enduring, as timeless as its physical attributes.  It remains as constant today as the first time I pulled my oldest grandson down the driveway because the little green wagon is something beyond its sundry components.  It’s not just a toy that transports a child from one place to another.  It carries with it a kind of gestalt, where the whole is more than the sum of its parts.   Just like a magic carpet or a pumpkin turned into a carriage or a winged unicorn, it’s a vehicle that can transform an ordinary ride into an adventure.   

They may not be conscious of the transformative nature of our little journeys, but each of my grandchildren will carry with them a fond memory of the days that we explored the world in a little green wagon.