Roots and Rings

At eighty-three, I've learned that the best stories grow from the simplest things. This morning, I'm harvesting spinach from my garden—the kind my father insisted would put hair on my chest, though I've yet to see evidence of his claim. The leaves are tender, much like the memories they evoke.

My father, may he rest, was a man of formidable opinions and one particularly formidable bull. That creature, Old Bessie, had more stubbornness in her hoof than most folks have in their whole bodies. Daddy wrestled with that bull for twenty years, and I swear sometimes I hear her snorting in the back of my mind when my grandson tries to explain technology to me.

Ah, the iPhone. What a peculiar little rectangle, really. My daughter insisted I get one, said it would keep me connected to the family. Connected, indeed—yesterday I accidentally video-called my sister in Ohio while trying to order more spinach seeds. She was delighted, I was bewildered, and we both had a good laugh about how Daddy would have reacted to a device that lets you see someone's face while talking to them from three states away.

But it was through this glowing screen that I watched my great-grandson play his first baseball game last week. The crack of the bat, the dusty uniforms, the parents cheering—it took me back to 1947, when I played catcher for the town team with a glove I'd saved six months' worth of allowance to buy. We played until the streetlights flickered on, until our mothers called us home to suppers that probably included spinach, because mothers know best, even if we don't appreciate it at the time.

Now, as I wash these spinach leaves and think about calling my sister to discuss our father's old bull—how she once tried to ride it and got herself stuck in a patch of tomatoes—I realize something profound. Life isn't really about the grand moments we expect. It's about how a stubborn bull teaches you patience, how baseball teaches you teamwork, how spinach teaches you that some things are worth acquiring a taste for, and how an iPhone can bridge the miles between generations.

I'll plant more spinach tomorrow. I'll call my sister, probably accidentally video-calling someone else in the process. And I'll remember that the most precious legacy we leave isn't money or property—it's the stories we plant like seeds, hoping they'll grow deep roots in the soil of our family's memory.