Once upon a time--
My father was a giant…and I, a small child whose hand was easily lost in his.
When I was a little girl, my father was a king…and I was his princess.
He was a character…a jovial man who played yo-yo, the fiddle, and enjoyed water fights. I was the little one who laughed.
Years ago my father was a chef. His chili warmed the cold evenings of winter. I remember this still.
When I was young, my father was a carpenter. He created treasures with his hands from blocks of wood. These gifts are with me even today.
A long time ago, my father was a teacher. I learned important things from him, like buying just one pair of shoes is never enough.
As a child my father was invincible, but as I grew older, I knew that someday I would have to say good-bye.
But once upon a time, my father was a giant and I was his child, and nothing will ever take that away.

"Our days are numbered. One of the primary goals in our lives should be to prepare for our last day. The legacy we leave is not just in our possessions but in the quality of our lives. What preparations should we be making now? The greatest waste in all of our earth, which cannot be recycled or reclaimed, is our waste of the time God has given us each day."

-Billy Graham

She had a curious sense of her own roots
twined about the old house.
-Alice Tisdale Hobart

I found this quote on a blog, My Messy, Thrilling Life. Brin is living a Freeman House dream. I want to as well.

OUT through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

-Robert Frost