Grapes and Hummingbirds

In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I grew up pretty poor.  Poor because of  a growing family and parents who were determined to be as frugal as possible, and then some.  My mom canned everything she could get her hands on and fed us as cheaply as she could.  This meant that a lot of times there wasn’t fresh fruit in our house.  But every now and then my dad would come home with grapes.  He would wash them oh, so carefully, and then sit at the table with the grapes in a bowl.  There was no grabbing a handful of grapes and stuffing them in your mouth, oh no.  These were to be eaten individually, enjoyed and savored.  They were a Treat.  (With a capital T.)

I still love grapes, I eat them slowly, and I often think of my dad when I eat them.

 

Until I was twelve we lived in Southern California, near Los Angeles.  My dad was a teacher then, and every summer we’d go for a camping trip in the Sequoia National Forest.  It was an amazing place, filled with trees that were taller than my young mind could comprehend.  The first time I ever remember singing “Israel, Israel, God is Calling” was in a small non-denominational chapel near the campground.  I remember playing with my dad in the river near the campground.  And I remember going to a place called Sunset Rock (presumably to watch the sunset?) and my mom being so excited every time she saw a hummingbird.  I could tell that seeing a hummingbird was a Treat.

I still love seeing hummingbirds, I think they are beautiful and amazing, and I always think of my mom when I see them.

 

Cindy Lynn suggested the other day that I was a little obsessed with the hummingbirds.  I am.

Part of it is because it’s hard to ignore anything so beautiful doing aerial acrobatics right outside your kitchen window.  But the other part of it is because it’s a connection to my mom.  She loved hummingbirds, and I know that she would be delighted to see these. 

So really, when I’m watching the show outside my window I’m loving it twice.  Once for me, and once for mom.