Memory

Memory

"The problem with growing up in a place so beautiful is they may not fully appreciate it."

We moved from the suburbs to the country when I was nine years old. The suburbs were nice, but nothing to compare with the beauty of the trees, streams, mountains and valleys of Vermont. And of course, the bright colors of the changing leaves. It was stunningly beautiful.


"Can you get over how beautiful this place is," were frequent expressions from mom and dad.

"No. It is amazing. I hope the kids will be able to appreciate it. The problem with growing up in a placle so beautiful is they may not fully appreciate it."

And we didn't. At least I didn't. At least not until years later when I would drive through the Wyoming countryside with my kids and ooh and aah at the mountains, valleys, and wildlife of that gorgeous state with my wife and three kids in the car.

One time I said to Cheryl about our kids, "The problem with growing up in a place so beautiful is tha they may not fully appreciate it." And then I remembered. And appreciated.

Memory is one of God's gifts to us, connecting us with past events and people. Sometimes the memories are painful. Sometimes they are full of joy. At times they are educational. Often, they connect us to the people and events that shaped us long ago. That happpened for me in a flash, 25 years after my parents' drive through the Vermont countryside. I felt connection and purpose.

I also realized that it isn't just the contours and colors of the countryside that matters the most, although the beauty of nature certainly has value in itself: God made it. But what matters most is how we experience it together. What we say. What the kids hear. Because years later, one of them will remember.

Warren Baldwin

Thanks to Karli Bonnie Photography for the beautiful picture of the leaves. It refreshed my memory and helped me remember.

Thanksgiving Memory

Thanksgiving Memory

Thanksgiving 1970 holds a memory for me. I was eleven years old. Hunting season was in full swing. Dad was off from work. This was my first year to deer hunt with dad.

Thanksgiving was usually cold and snowy in northern Vermont, and this day proved no exception. Dad took me to the edge of a wooded-area that faced an open field. "Sit here," he said. "A deer could possibly walk out into the open. I’ll take a stand further down the edge of the field."

My first deer stand. I was excited. But I was also cold and tired. I drew my arms in tight to my body for extra warmth. I pulled my hat as far over my forehead as I could to still allow my eyes some sight. I shivered. I closed my eyes. I dozed off.

How long I remained a tight bundle of shivering nerves I don’t know. I just remember the sensation that I was being watched. I opened my eyes and saw something, no someone, in the field watching me. It was dad.

For a moment I forgot being cold and tired. My racing heart revived me. How long had he watched me? Would he be mad that I feel asleep on a stand? Why was he just standing there?

He smiled, waived his hand, and said, "Let’s go home."

Grace covered me. And we’ve talked about it a lot through the years. With smiles. "Do you remember the time you fell asleep?" "Yes, I do."

Any Thanksgiving memory of your dad that stands out for you?

Warren Baldwin