Repost from 2020
My dad loved wood—all types of wood. From seed to towering tree, he had an appreciation of wood in all its forms. Dad could glance at a tree and know more about it than most people would know in a lifetime. I feel sure this was a result of the years spent as a young boy helping his father float logs down the river behind their home.
The news of good timber and the prospect of a good living is what moved he and my mom three states away from their first home. In those early years, cutting timber and working in a sawmill went hand-in-hand. Dad did both. As his family grew, so did his investment of time. He would work in timber by day and repair equipment by night. He could listen to an engine and know how to fix it. He had an “ear for it.” His neighbors and timber friends began bringing their equipment to him, and without even realizing it, a business was born. More than fifty years later, that business still stands. It looks different today. It has grown and expanded and employs more than just family. But its roots belong to my dad.
Dad always had his hand in many things. At one time or another, we had just about every kind of animal common to a farm. Cattle was a constant, and sometimes he’d rotate in chickens, or sheep, or pigs, or whatever he wanted at the time. He even threw in a pony, because you know, with four kids, you need a pony!
He planted fruit trees, nut trees, and just about every other kind of tree in his orchard. He painstakingly took care of them all. As I’ve reflected on his life, I realize that having his hand in so many things was his way of being a good provider. Dad only knew work. He enjoyed some of that work more than he did others, but it all looked like work to me.
Dad had a particular love of pecan trees. Perhaps it started with his father who planted a pecan tree in the back yard of their home the year my grandparents were married. As a young boy my dad watched it grow. It became a massive tree worthy of a write-up in the local paper several years ago. I remember seeing it through the kitchen window at my grandparents home when we would visit.
My dad took one of the pecans from that tree in the backyard of his childhood home and planted it on the land where my siblings and I grew up. We watched dad nurture it with pride. That tree now anchors the entrance to the family business and still produces pecans every year. When we visit my mom, it can be seen from her kitchen window too.
Several years ago, soon after my husband and I bought our home, my dad brought a jar of pecans he had picked from his own tree. My son, who was just a little boy at the time, helped his grandpa plant those pecans. Today as I look out my kitchen window, I see that one of those plantings has grown nearly sixty feet tall in our back yard. Some of my siblings have the same story of pecan trees at their homes. It’s a neat thing. The older I get, the more I appreciate it, knowing its history and remembering it started with my grandfather nearly a century ago.
Our family has spent many hours sitting around the kitchen table shelling pecans. It was a full blown operation with professional pecan crackers all the way down to those tiny picks designed to get the last little bit of pecan out of the shell. We all had our jobs. It’s one way we’ve welcomed in-laws into the family. We referred to it as a pecan-shelling party and perhaps it has become an unofficial rite of passage. Everyone goes home having enjoyed a few laughs, some new memories or the sharing of old ones, and of course—lots of pecans. As our family has grown and spread, the “parties” happen less often. But sometimes, those who live near will gather to shell a few for old times sake.
When my parents built their new house many years ago, dad carefully planned it from top to bottom. He became a skilled woodworker. He crafted custom cedar cabinets for their bathroom, oak cabinets for the kitchen, an accent wall for their bedroom, and wainscoting for the basement. This wood was never purchased from a big box store. He sawed each piece on his own sawmill and spent endless hours making it into the completed project he had designed. Mom would finish the wood by applying just the right product to give it that perfect luster. Amazingly, this was mostly done at night after they had both worked the family business all day. Teamwork at its finest.
One year at Christmas my dad surprised us with grandfather clocks, four in total, one for each of my siblings and I. By this time, we were all married with families and homes of our own. Dad had drawn out the plans for each clock, deciding on wood and design. He sawed each piece of lumber, board by board on his sawmill. He spent countless hours completing all four clocks in one year. It made for a very special Christmas. Each of us have them in our homes today, with the engraved note from dad carefully placed inside.
My dad stood tall like a mighty oak tree. He was strong and sturdy, a very proud man. He was firmly planted, not swayed by wind or storm, although he withstood several in his lifetime, figuratively and literally.
In 2011, floodwater stood several feet on those wooden basement walls he so carefully crafted. It was a difficult time for both of my parents, but with determination, grit, and lots of help, it was put back piece by piece.
Two years later, a tornado struck and left their home unlivable. Again, it was such a devastating time. Dad’s sentimental connection to their home led them to rebuild, salvaging everything that they could. It was a challenging season for our entire family, but with the same fortitude we had witnessed time and time again, mom and dad remained strong.
As dad got older he still had a desire to work with wood, but much to his frustration, his body wouldn’t allow it. His woodworking shop sat with dust on the equipment, as he longed to make things. The last few years of his life, he reminisced of days gone by. Dad was always thinking, his mind never stopped. He began to express a desire to run the old sawmill again. My brother went to great lengths to make that happen. It had been a while, so both the sawmill and my dad needed a little “propping up.” Ultimately, my dad was able to pull that lever one more time, watching the sawmill blade slice through another log, one final time. It was a special moment my brother was able to witness. He recalls that dad mentioned our grandfather that day, grasping the legacy and pausing to take the moment in.
Our strong, sturdy oak suffered his final storm five years ago today. My family will gather early this morning and share some time together with mom. I’ll walk into the house that he built, I’ll look through the kitchen window gazing a little bit longer at that pecan tree he planted so many years ago. I’ll rub my hands over those oak cabinets he so carefully made and so carefully preserved. I’m grateful for the way I can see dad in the tangible pieces he left with us. I also see my dad in the statue of my brother. As he stands to pray at our family gatherings, or as he stands to read a scripture in our worship assembly, I can hardly take it in. I also see my dad in the iron-will of my children, and as much as I want to fault them for it, I also know exactly where it came from. Legacy is a powerful thing. I’m so thankful for mine.
