May Write Away Contest - "Legacy"

Scribit is hosting her May Write-Away contest, entitled "Shoes". I've re-published this post as my entry.

Daddy, this posted is dedicated to you and the shoes you left behind.

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I was 10.

The year was 19 ... well, what does it really matter anyway.

We sold the home I'd grown up in, The one with the huge fruitless mulberry that had grown up in the yard right alongside me. The one I'd spent days climbing, and resting in. It was my best friend. My dad was called to do ministry with some friends in Caldwell, Idaho, so he took a year's leave of absence from the TV station and up we went. Goodbye sunny California. Hello, potatoes.

We moved to a spot outside blinkandyoumissit Houston, Idaho. Five acres surrounded by an irrigation canal, and potato fields as far as the eye could see. We had a few acres of locust trees out back, where my new friend Heidi and I spent hours on hours building forts and playing games. There was a bunny hutch (no bunnies, though) and a chicken coop. To this city girl, collecting eggs was a treat. The smell of chicken poop? Yeah, not so much.

I learned to make snow forts and tunnels in the winter, and ran wild throughout the open ground. I started taking the bus for the first time ever, and remember racing down the extremely long driveway at the last minute every morning so I didn't have to stand in the drifts of snow. It was the year I learned to love hot, flavored oatmeal.

My dad worked at least two jobs the whole time we were there to make ends meet. One of those involved marketing for a radio station. On the morning of my 11th birthday, I distinctly remember being dragged into the kitchen of our mobile home and having to listen to the station where he worked. I was impatient to get on with the day. Anxious to get to school to see what celebrations lay ahead. Birthdays were a huge deal at West Canyon Elementary.

Suddenly, a familiar voice came on the radio. It was my dad! He had recorded a special commercial spot wishing me a Happy birthday! It was one of the most memorable gifts I've ever received. By the time I got to school, everyone was buzzing about it. They had all heard it that morning!

This was also the year I learned to drive. Since we lived out in the middle of nowhere, with no one but the potatoes to hurt, my dad started taking me out in our El Camino and teaching me the basics. I can't recall how many hours we spent tooling around the area, discovering new rods, hidden areas, new vistas.I learned to drive a stick, and we both lived to tell about it.  We would talk and talk and talk some more about anything and everything. Sometimes, we just rode in silence.

Only once during that year did I really blow it. While driving down our dirt road (probably a wee bit too fast), I looked away for just a second at something. Next thing I know. we're nose down in Farmer McJunkin's ditch. Farmer McJunkin and his son owned everything to the left of our property, while the prolific Bates family and it's gazillion sons owned the rest of the area to the right. Farmer McJunkin was out doing some farming thing on some farming tractor thing and came to our rescue.

Exactly one year to the day after we pulled into Idaho, we pulled out and moved back to California. Back to the life we had left behind. Except for one thing.

I kept driving.

Dad and I would go out of town aways on the weekend afternoons and drive. The area we went to had been discovered as a mining town, so there were tons of dirt roads through the hills to be discovered. Many times we would take a narrow, winding one lane road as far as we could only to discover that there was no place to turn around. so, we would switch places and Dad would back the car out. Sometimes it was a mile or more. in reverse. With nothing but air on one or both sides of the road.

There was one night when, coming home from youth group, he felt too sick to drive. We lived about 30 minutes away and it was straight LA freeway home. I think I was maybe 13. He told me to drive home- but be careful. I was petrified! The Freeway! At night! But, he talked me through it, all the way home. Through traffic, off ramps, stop lights. Everything. We got home in one peace. I think afterward he must have thought he was insane.

These were good times for us. I was becoming a teenager, with all that comes with it and we talked. Alot.

Tonight, we lit the torch of the flame we will pass along.

Tonight, when we got to the turn of our dirt road, John pulled over and let Kati take the driver's seat. My baby, my first born. The child that renewed my hope for being a mother after so much loss and heartache.

I sat in the passenger's seat and repeated the same words that my daddy told me so many years ago. They flowed out without me even giving it any thought. They flowed naturally. I could hear his voice, gone for almost three years now, flowing in my head.

Pictures flashed through my mind off dirt roads, potato fields, McJunkin's ditch.

And love.

And pride.

Although gone, his legacy lives in me. It's there every day as I raise my own children and guide them towards adulthood. He made mistakes along the way, and I've made even bigger ones. But I strive to fill the shoes he left behind. Sitting there, in my mind, heart and soul.

In two months, according to the laws of this state, my daughter can officially take her place behind the wheel of a car. It's just another huge leap forward in her young life. And for six months, she will be required to have either her daddy or I in the car alongside her. Teaching, helping, guiding. (Clutching, biting, screaming, praying).

And during those times, I hope I remember that it's precious time. Time to bond, listen and learn. Talk share and  listen. Keep my cool, let her goof up, let her remember. Make a memory.

It's all a build up to the time when she will be able to go out on her own. To a job, to college, marriage, family, whatever her path is.

I plan to relish in the moments of watching her become a woman.

Remembering that I have to let go.

Eventually, of course.

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For more great Write Away entires, visit Scribit : A Blog About Motherhood.

Legacy