I am heading to the house my father built. It's an old tobacco barn, converted to a home. It was started in the sixties and originally housed my grandmother's art studio, grandma and grandpa. All the interior doors were made by Dad--rough cedar panel with diagonal cross framing. Mom and Dad moved in after my grandparents passed away. All the land was lovingly landscaped and mowed for so many years--by Dad--riding over a couple of acres of not-so-flat-land. Bamboo that overgrew and invaded the patio space enough that it prompted Mom to yell at Dad that if he didn't cut it back now, he wouldn't get any dinner! Transplanted redbuds, apple orchard, swimming pool, raising quail from eggs to release--all the things Dad took care of every day--Mom always loved looking at the grounds and she loved yelling at Dad--for 64 years.
Mom is gone--I took some of her ashes to Africa. Dad is gone, too. Much of Dad's memory has been gone for several years--taken by Alzhemier's Disease. I hope I haven't forgotten much [yet]. But it has been a rough year--for Mom, Dad and all of us.
I'm going to The Barn for his memorial service. And there will be ashes for me to take somewhere. I just can't think about where right now.Message Edited by kyshel on 04-30-2010 12:40 PM