I just finished reading an article in a new magazine that I
adore called Taproot. Each quarter they surprise me with the care
and attention they pay to every detail from the paper envelope that it comes
in, to the almost haunting heart and soul that goes into every story, every
word. The particular story I just
read, There and Back Again written by
Rachael Miller, literally made my eyes well up and heart break with a feeling
of great appreciation and great longing.
I feel an overwhelming appreciation for the life I am
blessed to lead today, but great longing for the carefree ways of my wild and
free childhood and the closeness I shared when I was part of a foursome living
in the country in South Texas. The
article reminded me of how much I deeply regret never having had the chance to
get to know my grandfathers because they both left this Earth far too soon. I miss my Nana, the person I have come
to understand and relate to most.
I miss secret hideouts, riding bikes with my brother and cousins,
running my horse wide-open across a freshly plowed field, swimming in a muddy
river, sledding down gravel mountains, and making mud pies with wild berries on
top. Long gone are the days of
riding go-carts with the neighbor kids and coming home after a long day of
making dirt clod forts to find daddy sharpening his pocket knife in his
recliner and the smell of a fried venison supper cooked by mama. No more escaping to the mesquite tree down our caliche road
to get over bad feelings.
I spent many summer days in my Nana’s fields picking
cucumbers, black-eyed peas, and corn and carrying in buckets full for her to
sell. I remember riding in the
front seat of my uncle’s grain truck while my mom drove from field to elevator,
sweating in the Texas sun, legs sticking to the vinyl seat. I watched my dad work for hours under a
truck or car as he overhauled the engine, mom handing him the tools like a
nurse for a surgeon. Some of my
favorite evenings were spent in our living room singing a bluegrass tune while my
dad played the banjo or mandolin. When
my brother and I came in from our days playing, we were usually pretty dirty
and smelled like outside. I love
that smell. I miss playing with him
and I even miss fighting with him.
As I type, my mind is flooded with memories, stories from a
past life that is ever present in my days as I raise a family of my own on a
ranch in the Texas hill country.
All of what I experienced as a child will forever shape my choices and
drive my endeavors. The Frio River
runs through my veins and I swear there is still black clay mud under my
nails. My hair still blows in the
wind above the back of my horse and I can still smell the leather of my saddle
mixed with the salt of his sweat.
Why do I feel such joy and such longing? Because I come from parents,
grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins that love me and still make me feel
loved daily. My people were farmers,
ranchers, engineers, hunters, dairy farmers, homemakers, cowboys, mechanics, seamstresses,
gardeners, hostesses, Texas Rangers, surveyors, writers, painters, bookkeepers and teachers. The ones I never knew whisper from my soul and those still
here are a constant presence for me to call upon. They are stewards of the land, the
wildlife, and the rivers and never shy from a hard day’s work. The making and tending of our homes and
families is as important as the air we breathe and working with our hands puts
food on the table and joy in our hearts.
I can say proudly that I know my cousins, all of them, and
see them at least once a year. My children have wide-open spaces to roam free
and creeks and rivers to throw a line in, or cool their feet in. I tend a garden and an orchard and
enjoy raising a pen of chickens.
My kitchen often smells like my mom’s kitchen and usually has a vase of
fresh flowers and a mason jar of fresh fruit preserves to put a smile on the
face of anyone who enters. I'm a wife, mother, sister, aunt, artist, designer, gardener, farmer, adventurer, and dreamer. My love is gathering people, making connections, and living artfully and meaningfully. Every
chance I get I call home to mom and dad and talk about everything or
nothing. My children know their
cousins well and spend time with their grandparents often. This is more than I ever dreamed possible, but none of this is an accident. Every day my choices reflect the whole of my existence and
for me that includes the existence of those who came before me. I listen to the whispers. My roots are planted firmly in the ground and I am reaching for the stars.
This is my legacy.
Have a great weekend!
Outside Lisa
