“We go to bed every night with no assurance of waking up the next morning, but we still set the alarm for the next day. This is called hope.” ~ Unknown
dogwood winter
I never see a pink dogwood that I don’t think about my Mamaw Adams. She loved pink dogwoods. One year, when she turned 90 or 95, the church learned that she loved pink dogwoods, so they gave her a sapling as a gift. She enjoyed it for several years until it grew tall enough to become really beautiful and block her view of traffic coming down Prestonsburg Street. She couldn’t stand not seeing the traffic. So she had the tree cut down. I remember going home and pulling up in front of the house. The tree was gone, and I was furious, thinking someone had destroyed her beautiful gift only to learn that somebody was her as soon as I got in the house. Well, what do you do then? I let out a sigh and said nothing more about it because there was nobody to be mad at, but inside, I was hurt. I loved the tree. Mamaw had a thing about trees, and it’s ironic that it was somebody else’s trees that destroyed the house in the 2012 tornado. But that’s a whole other story. For now, I will admire the beauty of dogwood season and have nothing but the fondest memories of my beloved grandmother, whom I miss with the deepest gratitude.
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