By Mary Lou Sartor
Among my thoughtful reflections at Thanksgiving, I find myself often retreating back to my childhood in Brazil.
My thoughts take me back to our three-room house, the crispness of fall in the air, spicy kitchen smells of cinnamon and sage, turkey roasting in the oven, and the warmth of the coal range. Smoke curling from the patched chimney and more...
Times were slower and things less convenient than most now; we seemed to have more time to be concerned for those around us and those that needed us.
It was then that I began to learn the true meaning of the word grateful and the importance of kindness.
My dad was a butcher at Lynch Bros store at the time. He also raised and sold poultry, waterfowl, rabbit, and more from his barnyard menageries. His five gardens bountied in abundance most growing seasons.
Hunting seasons could find him with a gun in hand, usually bring in the limits of wild small game, and sometimes quail and pheasant when he hunted in Pleasantville and Versailles.
In short, the inventory in his homespun store could handle the demand, and he had a family that helped with many tasks it took before any of the above was presented to his customers.
We always saved enough of our harvests to see us through the winter. All of the hard work put a little extra money in the save box and smiles of accomplishment on our faces.
Remember that I mentioned the importance of kindness and gratefulness for God’s gifts.
During those days of my childhood, times were hard. People did without much of what they needed. Dad being a people person, knew many suffering hardships, down on their luck. Good people of modest means or less than some like us. He opened up his heart and shared his wealth and kindness with strangers, friends, and neighbors, wanting nothing in return.
Hugh Lynch sowed good seeds. His kindness and generosity was a gift he handed down to us.
Because he cared to extend his goodwill and helping hand to others, for which I was proud and thankful, his good deeds will always be a part of my happiest memories at Thanksgiving.
Several years ago, around the holidays, I was inspired to pen this poem. The imagery may seem vague to you. I understand.
The Planting Place
I know a planting place where seeds were sown
And deeply set in loam of rootless time,
A place my heart alone and soul has known
That rests in confines of my mind.
A place to stoke the fires that burn inside,
Rekindling embers into ghostly glow;
I see the ripples of an ebbing tide;
And like a babbling brook, memories flow.
I drain the nectar from a full cup
And reap the goodness of a sweeter cast;
My garden bounties in a fruitful sup,
And I bow to the passions of my past.
I touch upon my sorrows in my quest,
While spirits bend toward familiar hands,
Then I carefully lay them down to rest
Because I know a place that shifts the sands.
Now in the dimming of my darkest days
Into the brightest light to yet be show,
While waiting at the portal of my amaze
I know a planting place where seeds were sown!
Mary Lou Lynch Sartor
Reach me by phone at 317-286-7352.