Tomorrow is the 120th anniversary of my grandfather’s birthday on my daddy’s side. As the youngest child of the youngest son, I’d like to think I’m not quite as old as that makes me sound, but then again, maybe I am.
The upcoming anniversary reminds me of stories I’ve heard dozens of time — of my granddaddy’s mother waiting for her Alexander to come and fetch her from the boarding house where she worked on the day she was married. Of my grandparents buying the mantle clock that sits beside me on their wedding day. Of wagons and wood stoves and the relative — aunt? My granddaddy’s grandmother? — who hid from the Yankees.
And it reminds me of how little my world resembles their own. I hop in a car, by myself, and make what would have been a full day’s journey for them just so I can go to work every day. My job has me sitting at a computer using my brain and fingers, not the hard work and sweat of my granddad’s generation. They farmed and worshipped and kept an eye on the skies to the west, praying for rain, praying for it not to rain at the wrong times.
In that realm, we haven’t advanced much. Sure, I can watch high-tech weather analysis from around the world to tell me the whys and whens of the weather, but if it won’t rain, all I know to do is pray.
And this morning, that’s what I’m doing. The 15-day forecast on the weather channel app on my smart phone gives little hope for rain, but our land is parched, the plants thirst and dying. So, I will pray, and I ask you to join me.