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Can the wisdom of a lifetime be shared?

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I was out buying tomato plants for the garden the other day and it brought back memories of my thirteenth Summer. I was in Boy Scouts and took on a project to teach crafts at Ashton Woods Convalescent Center a few miles from my home. I remember being excited to get to teach leatherwork and other crafts to the residents. While a few took part, I remember after a while my interest turned from teaching to learning.

Many of my free hours at the center were spent helping Mr. Farnell with the community vegetable garden. He was confined to his wheelchair, but with his knowledge and my arms, we raised an outstanding garden that year. I don’t think I’ve ever been that successful with tomatoes, peppers, squash and the like. That Summer he shared with me many stories of his life, his work with A&P grocery. But largely he taught me how to appreciate the beauty of life. The joy of helping God make something grow.

Many of the gardening techniques he shared with me are still with me today.

Many of the residents made a lasting impression on me that year.

Mrs. McMahan was a simple joy to be around. She was the type of person who could just make you smile when she walked in the room. In spite of her battles with bad health, her outlook was always uplifting. From her I learned that even the worst day can be faced with a smile.

Mr. And Mrs. Boxley both lived in the center. To me they seemed like a wonderful couple. They both had a spirit to enjoy life. They took each moment and did all they could with it. They both shared a passion for bird watching. They shared it with me. I still have a bird book Mrs. Boxley gave to me after Mr. Boxley passed away. Yesterday I saw a most unique bird with blue back and crimson front. There’s not a day that I see a bird I’ve never seen before they those two don’t cross my mind.

Mrs. Petit was one of the first severe stroke patients with which I spent time. She had lost the use of one side of her body and spoke only with great effort. I learned the importance of perseverance from her. No matter what craft project we undertook, she made every effort to do her part.

There were dozens of patients that Summer who I met and who became a part of my childhood. Many shared with me bits and pieces of their knowledge, their wisdom. Many were glad to share the company of a young person who was sincerely interested in them.

A boy scout project brought me there, but it was the people who kept me coming back for years to come. Eventually the folks I had grown close to were all called home. I often wish we could visit today, talk about where I’ve been and how they played a part in making me who I am today. I guess they are with me, even though I cannot speak with them. They speak to me in memories, in the things they taught me. When I’m digging in the garden to plant the tomatoes, I can still envision Mr. Farnell sitting next to me saying “Dig a little deeper son, those roots need room to grow.”

I often wonder what wisdom I will leave on this earth once I’m gone. Who will remember the things that were important to me? Will I leave a legacy of Wisdom? I hope so, because within me, there are so many people who I would like to see live on in what I share.

If you have never took the time to visit with older members of your family, church, community. I encourage you to spend some time with them. Listen to their stories, even though you think you may have heard them a thousand times. When they are gone, you will struggle to bring those moments back in your mind. You may even wish you had written the wisdom they shared down.

Often times with the people that we see the most, we neglect to cherish the times and wisdom they are sharing.

Wisdom can be shared. It can be passed from one to another, if only we are open to learning. Sometimes, only with age the wisdom of what has been shared with us will become apparent. But it is never too early to start accumulating shared wisdom. Someday it will come in handy.

The seeds of wisdom spit forth

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This past week I gathered with kin beside the stream that flows by my late grandparent’s home in the mountains of Tennessee. The area is now a state park, in the stream one of our cousins placed a watermelon to chill its bright red innards. We shared so much fun that day, as we cleaned up, we discovered the melon ice cold, and it had missed out on all the fun. As I sat on the back porch today looking out watching the grass grow, this image carried me in my mind’s eye sitting similarly on my grandmother’s porch. It was a summer where I spent a lot of time with my Grandma Kitty and Aunt Norma Jean. Flossie, the milk cow, was meandering through the yard headed for a shade tree where she laid down and tried to create a bit of a breeze using her tail to move an almost non-existent breeze.
Grandma was doing a much better job in her rocker with her funeral home fan and her right arm. In fact she managed to move enough that I picked up a bit of the breeze as mother and I went back and forth on the porch swing. Norma Jean leaned back in a ladder back chair against the wall abnormally still for her.
It was one of those days once referred to as the dog days of summer. I never quite understood that except I guess that the similarities with dogs it brought to us humans. We all sat around with our tongues hanging out of our mouths panting or at least so it seemed to me as a kid.
After a while I just couldn’t stand being still so I headed down to the branch to dangle my feet in the water. You know that works a lot better if you take off your shoes and socks. I never said I was real bright back then, or maybe it was just the heat.
Before I knew what had happened I looked around and everyone from the porch had joined me and you know there were smiles on their faces. They actually remembered to take their shoes off.
It was like the branch filled our bodies with a sense of hope. Hope that the heat would pass, and we would once again feel like ourselves again.
It wasn’t long though until I realized it wasn’t me that had drawn the group to the branch, especially when I noticed mother had spread out a red and white tablecloth on the bank beneath a tree. On it was a large knife and a cutting board and a saltshaker but there was nothing else.
What I did not know was that Grandma had a surprise for me. She sent me down into the deepest spot in the branch and told me to reach in for a surprise.
There was a deep green watermelon from the garden that was now cold as can be from the water running over it for most of the day.
I lifted it out and brought it up and set it on the cutting board. My shoes squished with each step.
We all now gathered around as mother cut the watermelon in pieces and we each began eating our fill.
Red fruit with a touch of salt and all those black seeds. How do you be polite with all those black seeds?
I followed Grandma’s lead and realized she was throwing the conventions of proper etiquette out the window. Rather than disposing of them quietly in a napkin, she suggested that we have a contest and see how far we all could reach spitting a seed.
We all took turns, seeing who could get across the branch. It is amazing how far the ladies could spit. They made it to the other side almost every time. Occasionally one fell short and down the branch it floated.
With each round, we found more laughter, each of us eventually won, and by the time we finished the melon, we had almost forgotten how hot it was when we started.
Our heat-induced melancholy was lost to the mischief of a melon and all its little seeds.
An added bonus, next year, the watermelons were so close to the branch, they didn’t even have to be carried and put in, they just rolled in themselves.