Sirens, neighbors, and bad news

Sirens can trigger memories for me... of that day back in 1996...

I wrote these lines in my book, Beyond These Walls; where you can find them starting on p. 125.

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A group of best friends were gathered in a living room when we heard a siren approaching on the highway… and then sudden silence...

That was strange.

What does it mean?

It was so unusual that we stepped outside to get a better look.

The ambulance had turned down the almost-deserted dead-end dirt road - which explained why the siren was no longer needed.

But why would they be going down there?

Hardly anyone lived on that road.

We heard ourselves talking about what it means to love my neighbor as myself.

We remembered how a mutual friend liked to stir up that topic to make us all think.

You know how if you are coming home and see smoke billowing from your neighborhood…?

The panic... the fear… and then the relief when you discover it’s not your house.

Whew! 

But wait; it’s my neighbor’s house…

Hmmm…

This is tricky.

Worth pondering

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Back to the mystery of the ambulance on the dead-end road…

Within a short time we would discover that the neighbor with the emergency was my own dear dad who had been planting beans in the huge field at the end of that road. 

And now he was gone.

Suddenly.

How would my dad treat this person?

I am heartbroken these days by the scary things happening to so many people in our world.  I so often wonder what I can do to help… and feel like I can’t do enough.

Today is my dad’s birthdate so I’ve been thinking about him and reading through some things people have said about him - like the former neighbor who said “this world needs more Lee D’Arcy’s” - which reminded me that we can continue his legacy.  The things we saw in him are things that the world needs.  Those things give us an example we can continue.  

I paused to remember some of the comments I often hear repeated about him:

• He always took time to ask how we were doing
• He listened to what mattered to us
• He might disagree with someone but still love them
• He always made me feel special

Sure enough, the tactics my dad practiced could be helpful to the people I know who are struggling or fearful about the future.  Making someone feel special or listened to is definitely a good place to start.

So now I want to read some of these other things I’ve collected about him…

Precious photos & memories

June 30 is always a day of memories for me, because it’s the date of my dad’s birth.  To celebrate the centennial of that event four years ago, I put together a book of photos from the “giant red photo album” with faded and worn black pages.  Of course, many of those photos are from before my time of remembering.  

Then again some of them seem timeless - like the old farmhouse where so many of those memories began - long before I was around and then for lots of years of memories for me.  Of course, some of my favorite memories from that house are from the year we lived there as newlyweds. 

This week and this month I have again been looking at those old faded photos.  I love this one of my dad with his little sister, Lois, who was a piano virtuoso at a very young age.  More than 70 years later, the cherished Gibson guitar is now in the care of my brother, Paul.

I wish I could figure out whose house this is where they set up a card table for our family.  I love this photo - maybe because we were such a good-looking family.

I do know exactly where this one was - by the big south window in the living room.  It feels so homey to me.  I was going to crop it a bit more, but I simply must leave those big feet and long legs in there.  Speaking of feet & legs, I notice that Paul is sitting on the deer-leg stool.  I wonder where that ended up…

Swing the camera a few feet to the left... and a few years later... finally one with little brother, Richard, who would eventually become the steward of the old farm places. 

On this date

 Has it really been 25 years?

Sure enough; my dad has been gone 25 years.

That feels significant - partly because we were in the midst of celebrating 25 years of marriage when he died - and sure enough we are now celebrating 50 years - a milestone he and my mom did not get to celebrate.

My thoughts wander in several directions.

It’s weird to think that my dad was around for only half of our married life.

I remember the night Bob asked him for my hand in marriage.

I remember the day he walked me down the aisle.

I remember so many things he did for us and with us.

And while remembering, I can’t help but wonder what he would have thought of some of our crazy adventures in this second half.  He might have privately questioned our judgment, but he would have been gracious.

…

Today is a busy day for me in my new life but I’m glad for the moments to pause and think of my dad and for the memories I carry with me today and always.

Thankful Thursday: remembering my dad

Today I’m thankful for my dad.

We lost him way too soon - 24 years ago today.

His life was too short but his legacy is huge and expansive.

• I’m thankful for the lessons he taught and the examples he set.
• I’m thankful for the ways I am like him - well, except that he was such a pack-rat!
• He was a plodder and just kept working on things one step at a time - although he never did quite finish getting rid of everything from those shelves in the shed.  Drats!  I fear that as my destiny as well.

But he was kind and patient and compassionate - and so many remember him as someone who loved them.  I really want to be like that.

I’m pretty sure I got my love of words and writing from him.  I don’t know if he ever considered himself a writer, but he was definitely diligent about writing.  He researched and composed and printed a centennial history book for the church... but mostly he wrote long, loving letters to friends and family.  I lived less than a mile from him... but there were those four years when I was away at college and that one year we moved our family to the Dominican Republic.  Those years away qualified me to receive his famous chronicles in my mailbox and for that privilege I am thankful.  

Might be time to revisit my letter-writing plan.  Well, it also might be time to go find those packets of letters from him
 in my bins and boxes piled up on all those shelves!

The man

Lee Wellington D'Arcy,
born June 30, 1919

Farmer

Single dad

Loyal friend

Preacher boy

Faithful husband

Patient father
Good steward
School board chairman
Stockyard worker
Builder of Marlette Homes
Loving grandpa
Real estate agent

Wordsmith and prolific writer of letters

Sunday School Superintendent for decades - who did everything in his power to make people feel loved and welcome

Gentle

Humble

Cautious

Deliberate

Intentional

Resourceful

He had big feet - size 13.

He could sleep almost anywhere.

Sang bass in more than one quartet

Played the guitar

Loved the music of George Beverly Shea, Tennessee Ernie Ford, Johnny Cash, Laurence Welk, Buck Owens and Roy Clark…

The centennial

Celebrating the centennial of my dad’s birth

He’s been gone 23 years but I really wanted to do something special this year to celebrate.

A hundred years is a big deal

Significant

Worth celebrating

Lots of fanfare

How do you celebrate a centennial?

A parade comes to mind

A huge event - with hundreds of people in attendance
Lots of hoopla

I didn’t know how to make any of that happen 
... so I would write a book about him.

A biography

A best-seller

Well, maybe not…

But loads of people loved my dad and some of them MIGHT want to read it.
... and maybe even buy their own copy.  
Or not.

I worked on it for a long time.

But it didn't turn out quite the way I hoped.

Yep, I tend to get big ideas.

My imagination can go a little crazy with wild ideas.
I’m not always so good at bringing them to life.

So I kept reminding myself to be practical.

And I WAS diligent about working on the various steps.

I kept plodding

Doing what I could

Gathering notes and ideas

Sorting through hundreds of photos

And I DID produce a book.

Just not the book that I hoped for.

I was planning a book with hundreds of pages and a few photos here and there.

I ended up with a photo book with a few lines of text here and there.

I did proclaim a centennial month.

And I did produce my own little parade - of photos - on my Facebook page.

But it didn’t feel like enough.

It was underwhelming.

No fanfare, no hoopla.

No parade

No huge event

A chintzy celebration for a great life.

I was tempted to be a teeny bit sad.

So then I asked myself what a centennial is for anyway.

Who is it for?

I’m not sure.

I just know that I wanted to honor this man.

So I tried…

I tried to do more than I could.

And then I did what I knew to do.

What I had the energy and resources to accomplish.

He would not ask more of me.

He might have commented on my tendency to attempt too much.

Again.

He might have asked me what I am learning from this.

Again.

…

He also attempted great things.

But he knew enough to take small steps.

That’s how he accomplished the great things he did.

Little by little.

One thing at a time.

And that’s what I ended up doing.

I was willing to tweak my goals to make them more practical.

I need not be disappointed in myself.

I succeeded in doing what I could to honor my dad.

He would be proud of me and I can be proud of myself.

Besides he wouldn't have wanted a lot of hoopla.

Remembering my dad

I'm remembering my dad today.

Twenty years it has been since he left this planet.

Much has happened in those 20 years. 

Things have changed - in my life and in that mile we called home.

When we decided to sell the tree farm a few years ago, one of the most difficult things for me was the fact that I was the third generation to own that property. We bought it from my dad who bought it from his dad. Even to this day and even though I am convinced it was the right decision, that fact still brings a lump to my throat and a tear to my eye.

So many memories of that place - both before we bought it from him and after - some of which I've shared before.

One event stands out in my memory. It was our first year of marriage and we were renting the old farmhouse from my grandpa. A group of teens came up "from the city" for a weekend retreat. They slept in the old barn and ate in the old house and my dad took them on a phenomenal hayride through "the west forty" - the very property which would later become Hidden Hollows Tree Farm. At that point, however, we had no clue that we would ever own it nor how many amazing memories of other phenomenal events would eventually happen on those acres.

I remember his old railroad conductor hat. I think he liked trains and he would wear that railroad hat when he was hosting one of his famous hayrides. 

Speaking of hats, I also remember another one - his "combining hat" that he always wore for harvesting grain. I thought it was a combine hat and only later realized it was a pith helmet like you see in safari pictures from Africa. Nevertheless to me it was his combine hat.

And THAT brings back other memories like the exciting purchase of the big John Deere self-propelled combine. 

Now that was a big machine. Big enough that an addition was required on the barn to provide a place (and a doorway!) high enough to store it. 

I also remember having my dad as my boss. I learned lots of things from working for him - like the importance of taking good care of your equipment and of putting things away where they belong. Those lessons stand me in good stead to this day.

My husband has his own memories - memories of also having my dad as a boss for one summer and memories from working on the west forty before it was ours - and even before we were married. Memories of driving the old John Deere "D" tractor to work up those fields swirling around the hidden hollows. I guess that was his initiation to the family and to the place. Quite likely that was when the seed was planted in his mind that we might even live there some day.

And so we did. We bought the land and he built a house and then a few years later we got the bright idea to plant Christmas trees. We had the audacity to ask my dad to help us plant them. I call it audacious because decades earlier he had helped his dad clear the trees from this land to make it tillable - so that Grandpa Frank could farm it and then Grandpa Lee after him. 

So here we were - planting trees in the cleared fields where he and his dad had worked so hard to get rid of the trees. And yes, he graciously helped us by bringing his gray Ferguson tractor to pull the tree planter - and some years the little Ford tractor.

And then years later when those seedlings had grown enough to be Christmas trees, he came again to help - this time driving an old John Deere tractor and giving hay rides to the customers. He was great for business - making people feel welcome and giving them a good time. He was a great host - wearing his old train conductor hat yet again.

Memories of my dad driving tractors and planting life into the good earth are quite significant to me because that combination was the very last thing he was doing on that day twenty years ago today.

Thankful Thursday: My dad

We heard the siren outside - but instead of zooming past on the highway, it sounded like it was stopping just out front. Curious, we went outside in time to see the ambulance going west on the dead-end dirt road. That's strange, we thought, because hardly anyone lives down that road. We wandered back inside to continue our meeting - only to be interrupted a few minutes later by a knock on the door.  My sister-in-law was looking for me with the news that my dad was gone. That's who the ambulance was coming for. Too late.

My dad was in the big John Deere tractor and had been planting beans in a field at the end of that road. He was doing what he loved - driving a John Deere tractor and planting seeds. And suddenly he was gone.

That was nineteen years ago today.

So many memories. So many things to be thankful for.

My dad did not have the chance to attend high school because he was needed on the farm, but he did not let that stop him. Somehow he found ways to keep learning. As a young man he ended up preaching in our little country church. I'm not sure how or why he was chosen, but he was the one in charge on those Sundays when the official pastor assigned to our "circuit" was preaching at one of the bigger churches. He did have a way with words for sure. I sometimes wonder what career paths he may have traveled given the opportunity.

My dad also organized and directed the Sunday School program for who knows how many years. As I look back on those years and the things he pulled off, I'm amazed by his innovation and creativity and ministry skill - despite having only an eighth-grade education.

He also single-handedly ran "the bus ministry" - but without a bus. Instead he made "extra" trips with our car filling it up with kids (and oldsters) who had no other way to get to church. To this day I am still bumping into people whose lives were changed by his effort and by those many miles he drove every Sunday.

As I listened to the stories that people told me in the days after my dad died, I happened to think of a phrase I had heard, a warning actually, about how easy it can be to love things and use people. As visitors gathered and talked about how they felt loved by him, it seemed like my dad had it right: he used things and loved people. In fact he used things until there was no use left in them. You couldn't get him to throw something away until it was totally and completely worn out and useless!!!

Yah, I might have picked up that habit from him.

Portrait of my dad was painted by his grand-daughter, 

Wendi Lee,

pictured here with him and wearing his hat.

Oh, the changes a day can bring!

I have distinct memories of that day. I was meeting with some close friends that afternoon. We heard the sound of a siren coming up the highway and noticed that it seemed to be stopping right out front. This is quiet farm country so we went outside and watched as the ambulance turned west on Adams Road. I think I breathed a prayer for those involved as I often do when I hear sirens. I never thought about my brother owning property over there at the end of the road – or that it might be my family who was dealing with a crisis.

After we had been back inside for a few minutes, there was a knock on the door and my sister-in-law appeared telling me that my dad had died. We got in her truck and went to the field. My brother took me to the tractor where Daddy was slumped over – as if he had just fallen asleep. I will always be grateful for that opportunity to see him looking so peaceful in that tractor cab. It was somehow comforting for me in the days to come. Plus I guess it was my chance to say good-bye.

I also have a whole wagon-load of memories from the next few days – listening to so many testimonials about the life of this man. As I heard the sentiments of those who had been touched by his life, this thought emerged: “Some people love things and use people. This man was different in that he used things and loved people.” He didn’t really care that much about things; making it crazy difficult it was to find something to buy him for Christmas. Last year's new wallet was still in the box because the old one wasn't worn out yet. But he did care about people and they knew that he loved him.

But more than that day, and more than those stories, I’ve been remembering him in ordinary life. Day after day as I mow the grass around this place – up and down the rows of Christmas trees – I think about my dad. He and his dad perhaps had toiled to clear the trees from this land so that they could farm it and. I ponder the irony – that we had the nerve to ask him to help us plant trees on these cleared tillable acres. He may have thought that was a move in the wrong direction, but he didn’t scold us. Instead he cheerfully drove that little old Ford tractor towing the little one-row planter with my husband perched on the planter seat, inserting Scotch pine seedlings into the ground – one at a time – row after row.

Those seedlings did indeed mature into beautiful Christmas trees and some years later my dad again came to help on the “west 40” – this time driving an old John Deere tractor and serving the customers who came to buy Christmas trees. He relished his role as host and guide – giving wagon rides, making customers feel welcome and helping them build family memories. How fun to see his old “train conductor” hat put to such good use.
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And now he's gone - some seventeen years. The Christmas trees have grown up to make this place a glorious green retreat just waiting for the right buyer to come along and snatch it up. All of us have grown up since then, too - or at least we have grown... in lots of ways. 

Things change - through the passing years so that we hardly notice - and sometimes in a day when everything is suddenly different. We notice those days and we remember.

June 4, 1996, was one of those days.

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Do you have memories of my dad, too? Please leave a comment to share one of yours.

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Compiled from bits and pieces written on this date through the years...