Profound Memories and their Stories Part 5
July 24, 2025
Profound Memories and their Stories Part 5
I am my father’s namesake. Though we are entirely different people, so many of my earliest memories are of him.
As Daddy began and built his own food brokerage business, he worked a lot, including Saturday mornings. Even as young as three years old, I rode with him on Saturday mornings to his office, where he sorted through the mail, planned for the coming week, and wrote letters for his secretary, Mrs. Winberg. I would peck on the typewriter and draw pictures on discarded stationery. After that, we would meet a couple of other businesspeople at a restaurant for coffee. They talked and drank coffee while I sipped on a Coca-Cola. The men would say things to my dad like, “You’ve got a good little helper there with you.” Daddy gave a proud smile and said, “Yes, siree.”
Our route to the office was always on Mobile’s tree-covered Government Street. The water oaks arched over the street, so it was like driving through a green tunnel. What I remember most about those drives is that my father would sing to me. He made the songs up as he sang them; many were about me, which was embarrassing. But there was one song he did not make up that I will never forget.
“My Blue Heaven”
Whippoorwills call, evenin' is nigh
Hurry to my blue heaven
Turn to the right, there's a little white light
Will lead you to my blue heaven
You'll see a smilin' face, fireplace, a cozy room
Little nest that nestle while the roses bloom
Molly and me, and the baby makes three
We're happy in my, in my blue heaven.
We’re happy in my blue heaven.”
Later in my childhood and into my teens, especially on Saturday evenings after we had cut the grass, trimmed the hedges, or raked leaves all day, Daddy wanted me to sit with him in the backyard in aluminum folding chairs. As the sun disappeared, crickets chirped, and as the twilight sky gave way to a luminous blue, lightning bugs twinkled like fairy lights. There was always the smell of freshly cut grass or burned leaves. I was OK but would rather watch TV or be with my friends. The Bobwhites and Whippoorwills called from the woods that backed up to our yard as we sat there. My dad would give me my weekly allowance and say, “Aren’t you glad you worked today—don’t you feel the satisfaction that you accomplished something and can sit here and enjoy the fruits of your labor? I want you to know the value of work. This is the best part of the day, but without first working, it would not mean as much.”
I did not understand then that my father was actually saying, “Please value me and what I am teaching you. Isn’t this heaven just being with each other?” But I was too involved in childhood or being a teenager to know what later came to me in adulthood and fatherhood.
Daddy may have taught me the value of work, but he also taught me the secret of presence. I remember those nights with him more than I do watching TV shows or being with my friends. These times together were soul-making. They were our blue heaven.
Spiritual practice: Ask for a memory that made your soul. Go into silent meditation and let it find you.
Self-inquiry: How can even your most complicated relationships have soul value?
Dear God,
What a powerful memory of soul-making. I am deeply grateful for these “hidden things” — memories that make the stories of our lives. Amen
