The smell of Mom’s Gills Coffee in the Christmas box from Virginia. The box itself wouldn’t make it too far past the front door before she was opening it. The coffee smells dominated the wrapped packages inside. Unlike the box’s other contents, the coffee bag wasn’t wrapped as a present. Mom never waited for Christmas there. I was years too young to drink it, but it might as well have been a square on an advent calendar. Christmas was coming to Kansas.
Homemade ice cream custard, strawberry or peach—it didn’t matter, churned by our hands, the clanking of cast iron gears and picked ice in a wooden cask. The sights and sounds and, ultimately, tastes were among the earliest favorite places in my memory, and yet they were just aside the back porch. I never knew my Mom to disapprove of Dad’s handiwork there.
Driving into Golden at the edge of the Rockies. Making out the “M” near Lookout Mountain, and driving past the brewery, knowing that in a few days’ time I would be marrying one of their favorite daughters—the girl of my dreams.
My first flight in T-37s breaking through the weather and looking down at the cloud through which we had just climbed and emerged, and there, seeing a vibrant rainbow perfectly encircling the shadow of my plane.
The endless arrival of the waves at the beach at Bellows. The cool trade winds wiping my brow as the plumeria delights my senses with the most pleasantly comfortable scent—a peaceful rest for my mind.
The constancy of Old Faithful. We really do crave stability, don’t we? The incessant drumbeat of the geyser appearing time after time and time again. Despite the poverty, injustice, and the rights that seem to be wronged, Old Faithful vents again to tell us, “I’ve got this.” And, He does.
All too brief visits to “the fishin’ hole” on the river. The hours of glancing at the tallest peaks in Colorado and the moments of making acquaintance with God’ creatures. The simplicity of life at river’s side. What you do in the river matters. But, in this life, the river is never yours—it only flows past you.
Oda’s chicken coop housed some of the most stubborn hens who would stare you down and win in any contest. Some days you were lucky and they were out in the yard. Some days you weren’t.
The echoes in the upper reaches of the Protestant Cadet Chapel after a final triumphant pipe organ-cleaning chord from the hands of the late James Roger Boyd. My ears strain even now for the re-echoes.
The delivery rooms of each of our children. Different, like them, but alike in the miracles that appeared there. In the first five minutes of each one’s life, they would exhibit character qualities I would observe in them for years and years to come.
The night walk to the lava flow at Kilauea. The heat and light in the middle of the night left as lasting an impression on me as it did on the Hawaiian landscape.
Looking up from my map to see a telephone pole whiz by my canopy. We were entirely too low and I look back at that moment as a time when God told me unmistakably that He had more things He wanted me to do.
Seeing and feeling Apollo 14 launch off to the moon at Cape Kennedy. I was dreaming and realized I was a dreamer and I tapped into the power of that reality on that day. I’ve been a dreamer—and a dreamer advocate—ever since.
Getting in the Matterhorn ride at Disneyland at age seven. I didn’t know what a roller coaster was but I couldn’t wait to splash through that portion of the ride at the end. I’d watched enough Disney shows on television to know what was about to happen, and that my life was about to change forever.
Encountering my former students’ parents at the grocery store—students whose names I couldn’t remember—greeting me and seeing them want to tell me about their children and express their appreciation.
A Yellowstone bear’s paw print on our white car that we drove back to Kansas. We didn’t wash that car for weeks. I’ve never seen Dad prouder of a dirty car.
On this Independence Day, many in America are not celebrating. They are angry, hurt, bitter, and in trouble. But they, too, have good American memories. If only they would tap into the power of those realities, the waypoints of their American journey might be a rest for their minds as well.
For me, America is not about millions I make or the fame I’ve achieved or the power I possess. I have not millions or fame or power. But I have my memories of America even as I’m making more. They are worth more than millions or fame or power to me. They are the smiles of yesterday. You have some, too.
Have to run—I’m off to make some ice cream. Happy 4th everyone.