THE HOUSE BESIDE THE ROAD

"I WRITE TO REMEMBER"

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As the curtain opened to a new milestone, moving upstream, I found myself where memories were more rememberable.  The period in life that was impressionable to this toddler/pre-schooler.

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

The House Beside The Road

Tucked to the side, a side yard, overgrown and barely visible from the road, was my play ground.  It was a well-preserved weathered adobe house.

One day an unspeakable small tragedy occurred.  In a rambunctious sort of way, I had lost my eye glasses in a bed of hay.  The call for reinforcements had everyone on their hands and knees, searching for the toddler size glasses of which I was not a help due to my lack of almost blindness without them.  In a three yr. old sort of way upon being asked where I thought they could be, I would say “here”, “no, over here”.  Relief was in sight when someone finally discovered them buried in the loose straw.

“Sometimes the finest adventures are the ones where you can simply slow down and appreciate the beauty which surrounds you.”

There's nothing like the discovery of a hidden memory jarred by some photo, something said, or mesmerized by something read or seen or heard.  

Once a month or so, I would accompany my father into the city to purchase supplies.  Although there was a physical closeness, I always felt that my fathers thoughts were far away perhaps armed with the list my mother had handed him and burdened by the thought of having forgotten something that we would then have to wait for a future trip the next month.  On occasion, he would be given the task to purchase something for others.  

Perhaps he carried the thoughts of the difficulties he had encountered on a previous trip into a remote village.

Stone bridge with impressive cobblestone that crossed a stream, in front of the house beside the road.

The general thinking in the early 50’s  was “spare the rod and spoil the child.”  I was expected to behave.  In those days I was allowed to explore with few restrictions.

 My mother was not one to spare.  One day she gave me a healthy dose of discipline to an offense I do not remember.  She inadvertently, gave me a hard swat on the keister which resulted in a broken blood vessel in her hand.

The next time, I was sent out to the wood pile in search of a switch, the thinner, the more painful, I learned.

My father on the other hand, never laid a hand on me, just the look or a spoken word was enough to show his disapproval and set me straight.

I am reminded of:

Proverbs 29:15 that, "The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame." 

And have on occasion thought that had I not been 

left to myself so many times that some of my independent and unsupervised wild escapades would have tamed and prepared me more for the spiritual disciplines of life.

We  lived in the house beside the road until I was around eight while our house on the mountain was being built.

Since the dawn of my existence, “There are some images so powerful they can never be forgotten.”

The reminders are there, that I am, have been securely nestled in God's presence and he remains the same when I am faced with struggles.