Uncovering a Legacy

My mother's father, Dumont Kennedy, was a well-respected attorney and statesman.  He passed away long before I was born, so I never knew him - but I am grateful for his legacy.

Today while searching online, I found this newspaper reprint from September 24, 1913, when he was running for mayor (he was elected for the position).  My mother would have been barely seven years old at the time. The article's author seems intent on representing his noble character, which was evidently undisputed in the community. I am grateful this upstanding man of character was my grandfather.

* * *

Source: Crawfordsville Journal Wednesday, Sept 24, 1913 

---

Dumont Kennedy, the candidate for mayor, has lived here all his life. The Kennedy name figures large in the history of this county and no man can point to a single spot on its record. He has held the prosecuting attorney's office two terms, the office of clerk at the Circuit Court 8 years and is as well known as any man that could be placed in office in the city. There is not a closed page in his whole life. In the public offices that he has held, was he known as a grafter? Has a single suggestion of dishonesty ever been made of him? Did he as an office holder of his party do anything to the public detriment? Does the community afford a man more noted for his strength and breadth of mind; more vigorous and wholesome in his common sense ideas and views? Can you think of any person in all the range of your acquaintences to whom you would more readily or unreservedly entrust your affairs or those of your family? Do you know of anybody who is more nearly "the salt of the earth?" Have you ever hoped for better timber for mayor than Dumont Kennedy?

The Doghouse

Today’s mail included a report from the doctor addressed to my husband.  He opened it quickly, eager to learn the diagnosis of a growth that was recently removed from his cheek.  Scanning the page, his face fell. With an alarmed voice he exclaimed, “Oh NO!!  I’ve got…I’ve got…” 

My heart sank to my toes, and I felt the bolt of adrenaline.  A health crisis was evidently upon us.  I told myself to be strong for him, and wiped my hands on the kitchen towel. “Let me see - what does it say?” 

Peering over his shoulder, I scanned the document.  There it was, some very long, unpronounceable medical term, followed by a dash and a single word of explanation followed by an exclamation point: “benign!”

I lashed out in retribution with adrenaline fueling my rebuke.  “That wasn’t very nice!”  I scowled at him, my hands shaking.  “Faking a bad report! You…You…You’re in big trouble with me, buddy!”

To make a long story short, he retreated to the doghouse – that figurative place where husbands go when their wives are peeved with them.  For the next hour he kept teasing me from that spot, peeking around corners, slinking by me as if a fugitive.

It was hilarious. 

Finally I couldn’t ignore his antics any longer.  I was walking toward our bedroom when he tucked behind a corner with only a single eye visible.  It was a standoff.  I walked up to him, eyeball-to-eyeball, and could not manage to keep a straight face!

The contrived ice broke, and we enjoyed pleasant companionship for the rest of the evening. 

The Voice

New snow slowly descended this morning, the soft white flakes floating down and down in the stillness like white confetti at a parade.  As the hours passed, a wind picked up, causing these tiny crystals to twist in a happy choreography that lacked direction or destination. I was stirred by this beautiful dance that inspired an unspoken song…the voice of wonder and gratitude.

“The danger is that you will not listen to the voice that speaks to you through the seagull mounting the gray wind, say, or the vision in the temple, that you do not listen to the voice inside you or to the voice that speaks from outside but specifically to you out of the specific events of your life, but that instead you listen to the great blaring, boring, banal voice of our mass culture, which threatens to deafen us all…”

-Frederick Beuchner

Dinner On the Fly

Tonight’s dinner wasn’t planned, which seems to be the way of things around here.  In fact, it is typical for some of my best efforts in the kitchen to show up with minimal prior thought, as long as the pantry and refrigerator are well stocked.  I love cooking on the fly!

This morning I removed some previously forgotten chicken breasts from a corner of the freezer to defrost, but without a vision for their use.  The hours slipped by, and at 4:30 it was finally time to get busy! That’s when the fun started.

The thawed breasts were surprisingly huge.  It would be criminal not to stuff them, I thought, so I cut deep slits and spooned sautéed onions, mushrooms, and bell peppers (mixed with homegrown sage) into the cavities. 

Roasted sweet potatoes, steamed green beans, cranberry sauce sweetened with honey and stevia, and leftover kale salad rounded out the meal.  Good food, candlelight, wine, music, conversation…the dinner hour doesn’t get much better than this.

A Poetic Heart

I savored my granddaughter’s emerging poise today, her outspoken delight in all things elegant and fine.  She exclaimed over old favorites (my antique china plates) and new discoveries (trinkets in my display hutch).  Just about everything seemed special through her eyes.

While sitting at the table sipping chai tea from a delicate teacup, she looked out over the windswept lake, her gaze soft and wistful.  “I wish I lived here. The lake is so…graceful.”  This is the voice of a poetic heart.

Gettin' Ready!

Tomorrow is Fancy Day, the appointed day when I get together with our local 7-year-old granddaughter for some special one-on-one time. I've been gathering craft supplies and making a few samples this afternoon in preparation.  Some of the options I'll offer her are self-explanatory, but I thought others might be more exciting with visual inspiration - AND I learned some helpful hints in the process. :-)

A water-color of trees at night (with salt-scarred specs as snow) - my trees look broken and hardly well-proportioned, but I know what to do differently next time:

Three-dimensional snowflakes:

Stained-glass ornaments (tissue paper squares between clear contact paper):

A sample scarf knit on #35 needles with huge yarn:

The Path of Life

My hunch is that most educated American adults have heard Robert Frost’s poem about two diverging roads in a yellow woods, and his decision to take one that made the difference.  It is an example of classic literature that inspires careful thought and intention.

It’s not always easy to know which path to take.   And yet choices define us and shape fate – even our eternal destiny.  Sometimes it seems self-absorption can diminish what the ancients took so seriously. Jesus fulfilled hundreds of years of prophecy, and came into the world at Christmas to lead us on the path that takes us home! St. Ephriam in the 4th century said it well: 

  “Thou, O Christ our Savior, hast become for me the path of
   life which leads to the Father.  There is but one path, and 
   it is my joy, and at the end of it is the heavenly kingdom."  

   -St. Ephraim the Syrian (306-373 AD)