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Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Brazil Buzz

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

My Seasons

To all of those whom can not see

What stored away memories mean to me

That can not touch upon the blend

Of precious thoughts that mix and mend

Of love once felt and tears once shed

Life with the living and mourning the dead

Chills of my winters and warmth of my springs

What frolic my playful summers did bring

The crimson leaves that colored my falls

How I wish I could remember all

Oh the seasons of my yesterdays

My thoughts are threading in so many ways

Over and over they came and went

Now too soon my years are nearly spent

Soon I will gather up the threads of my mind

And leave my golden tapestry of life behind

Mary Lou Lynch Sartor

Copyright 2002 Mary Lou Lynch Sartor

Today I reached another milestone. I was born Nov. 4, 1939, at the homestead, just a few feet from the little blue house at the end of the road, 71 years ago.

I was the fourth child born to my parents, Hugh B. and Geneva Edith Lynch.

Several ladies told my dad and mom that she carried a boy in her basket. Believing that, you can imagine their surprise when Dr. Timothy Weaver brought me into their world.

Truth is, my dad was away from the house, hunting, that day. It was the first day of rabbit season. Besides, they weren't sure of the accuracy of the due date.

The woodsman finished his day with the limit of five rabbits, a quail or two in his hunting coat's game pouch and a newborn girl - me.

I can still hear his many manufactured stories.

The untruth that sticks out in my mind now came about when I was quite young, perhaps school age.

I was "helping" him clean fox squirrels in front of the west wall of the old red chicken house where he mounted the trophies of his hunts. Those bushy appendages removed from bounties.

Without cracking a smile, he offered, "You were born with a tail like that, but Dr. Weaver cut it off." He thought that I would buy into that silliness. I giggled for his sake. I tried to check it out for my sake, for goodness sake.

That night, before bedtime, I put forth an effort to look for a scar in the mirror of the big dresser against the west wall of the family's bedroom. I could barely see my head in that clouded mirror. The mirror in the cedar jewelry box out of reach also.

I would find a better way to set my mind at ease and I did.

One day we made a trip uptown to see Dr. Weaver. I told his nurse that I wanted to ask my doctor a question. I told her my problem and ask if she could help me out.

What if Dad was telling the truth?

The nurse in the starched uniform left the room and returned, the good doctor followed close behind. He chuckled and placed his big hand on top of my head and shook his head.

He said, "Don't believe everything you hear and only half of what you see young lady! That Daddy of yours is pulling your leg."

Then everyone laughed including me.

When we arrived home Mother told him about my bold move to seek the truth about the tail. He said, "Next time, ask Doc Weaver about your horns."

I never did.

Dad once said that the stork dropped me in the hog pen and he and mom rescued me from the hungry swine, just in the nick of time. Imagine that picture!

Mom always pretended like she did not appreciate the funny stuff, but truth is, she was one of his biggest fans for over 61 years.

Dad never made a big deal out of birthdays. He always said that his was too close to Christmas. His birthday was Dec. 17.

Over the years when my birthdays rolled around he would always mention the tail, his tall tale. He would gift me with an ear to ear grin. I miss that.

It is good to store happy memories and gently unwrap and enjoy those treasures on special days like birthdays or any day we need a laugh or tears of joy. I will have a little of everything today, thank you!

Thanks so much to the readers of "Brazil Buzz" that sent me the nice emails last week.

I can be reached by phone at 446-4852 or by email at pmlsartor@aol.com.