When I received this picture of
Brooks, I immediately thought of the first lines of a William Carlos Williams
poem, “So much depends upon a red wheelbarrow.” I guess in my career as an
English teacher, I must have read or assigned this poem a dozen times. But to
be honest, I never understood—truly understood—that first line until I saw
this picture. Brooks might not able to verbalize his thoughts, but his
expression tells me he definitely understands what Williams is saying. A red
wheelbarrow doesn’t just carry dirt or tools or toys. A red wheelbarrow carries
possibilities.
Another person who would have
understood this poem was my dad, Joe Fink. As a young man of seventeen, he
found his dream job. He joined the merchant marines and sailed off to see the
world, albeit a world being ravaged by WWII. A few years later, it took a
shipwreck to convince him that sailing was not the best occupation for a family
man. He traded his seafaring for a job at a refinery along the Houston ship
channel. Not the most glamorous or exciting of occupations, but steady work
that would provide well for his family.
After twenty-five years at the same
company, he retired. A hard worker all his life, he now had time to pursue
another dream job—gardening. And he pursued it with gusto. In winter, he’d
study the Farmer’s Almanac, deciding
when and what to plant. The first hint of spring would draw him outside to
prepare the soil by hauling dirt, manure, or compost--all in a wheelbarrow--all the while imagining
the crops the contents of that wheelbarrow would yield.
I’m sure he didn’t work long hours
tilling, planting, harvesting just to put food on the table. Quite honestly, it
probably would have been cheaper for him to buy vegetables at the grocery store—
although they wouldn’t have been as tasty and he couldn’t have shared them with
friends and relatives. I think gardening attracted him because it provided a way
to stay active and fit. And it gave him a sense of accomplishment, a sense of
still being productive in his later years. Most of all, I think it gave him
peace—a place and time to meditate, to connect with his Creator. Once, for Christmas, I gave him a little plaque for his garden which bore the following verse by
Dorothy Frances Gurney: “The kiss of the sun for pardon, The song of the birds
for mirth, One is nearer God’s heart in a Garden, Than anywhere else on Earth.”
When he opened the gift and read it, he said, “You know, I really believe
that.”
My dad passed away a few weeks ago.
God, in His perfect timing, took him just as all quality of life was gone. But
it was also perfect timing because it’s almost spring. Time to start a garden.
I’m no Bible scholar, but I do know that
heaven is a place where our souls will be at their happiest, most content
state. So with spring approaching, I like to think of my dad outside. He’s
wearing a straw hat, some worn leather working boots, a pair of dark green coveralls
that sag in the rear. Under a gentle morning sun, he’s headed toward his
garden, pushing a wheelbarrow full of heavenly possibilities.
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| Daddy maintained a huge garden until his late 80's when he had to downsize. But even in a small garden, he was able to produce bumper crops of veggies. (And, of course, he allways had his his faithful sidekick Sandy to keep him company!) |
