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My grandfather was a salesman for Westinghouse.  He spent his week dressed in a suit making calls on various customers, showing them the latest in electrical boxes and the like.  Many a building in downtown St. Louis contained components that he had sold.

When he got off, he’s head to his suburban home and sip a martini.  Evenings he grilled on the patio around which he had planted a variety of roses and mums.

I spent a lot of time with my grandparents and it would have been easy for me to learn to see the world as urban (good) and all those other grubby people.  But that wasn’t Bumpa’s way.  He also loved to hunt mushrooms so he knew many of the farmers around St. Louis.  His favorites were the morrells and he knew where to find them.  He’d bring a gift for the farmer and chat for a while before heading into the woods to look for mushrooms.

He also loved to fish.  When we’d go down to the lake, we’d stop and spend time with another farm family he knew.  I have no clue how they met but to reach their  land, you drove down a narrow country lane and then too a hard right across a field, nosing a gate open with the hood of the car.

My childhood memories include following men in overalls and women in gingham out to various barns to see calves, lambs and piglets.  Me?  I don’t, by any stretch of the imagination, have the skills of a farmer but I love the sound of rain on a corrugated roof, the taste of a garden ripe tomato, and the crunch of an apple fresh off the tree.

I’m thankful my grandfather taught me these things.  They help me appreciate God’s creation all that much more.



Have a Mary Little Christmas

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