Altar Call – Opelika-Auburn News
Walter Albritton
A few of the things I see outside my study window
every morning
There are
things I wish I could share with others. Not things really, but sights and
experiences, like the things I see outside my study window every morning.
The running
rosebush is one. Last summer I bought five running rosebushes. I know -- they
should not be planted in the summertime.
I thought
that too, until I asked the nice saleslady at Southern Homes and Gardens. She
told me I could plant roses anytime; they just need more water and attention if
planted in the summer.
Only two of
the roses lived. And I know why the other three died. I did not tend to them,
and water them, as I should have. I was busy with other things. And I have
grieved over my deceased roses, and apologized.
The one
outside my study is sturdy and strong. I named her Rosie. She knows I have been
looking at her. So she has rewarded my attention with several beautiful white
roses.
Today four lovely
blooms have bunched together, opening toward my window. They are showing off,
as though they are saying to me, “We are turned toward you because we know you
enjoy looking at us. We can see you smiling, and we like you too.”
It’s nice
to know that roses can read my mind. I can read theirs too. They are saying,
“We have bloomed for you, now bring us some food and water!” I promised them I
would in a few minutes.
Our dear
Rosie the rosebush is not lonely. Dean and I placed a piece of driftwood behind
her, and she has slowly embraced the driftwood. I call him Danny. You know,
Danny Driftwood. The two of them make a nice pair.
Nearby
stands an angel Dean placed in the middle of the birdbath. I reckon that is as
good a place as any for an angel. I have an idea angels can stand most anywhere
they wish.
Angie,
that’s the angel, is standing guard over the hummingbird feeders. We have two,
both filled with sweet red water. We have had only two hummingbirds come by
this summer.
Funny thing
is the two birds fight to control the same feeder. Each could have his own
feeder, but instead they prefer to fight. That’s a lot like human beings.
If I listen
intently I can hear Angie the Angel laughing and saying, “Preacher, you may
need to reconsider that evolution theory; perhaps your ancestors really were
birds after all.”
I laugh in
return and reply, “Dream on, Angie, dream on; it will take more than two
hummingbirds to make me give up on the creation story!”
Angie
smiled and said, “I know, you stubborn old man.” We understand each other, the
angel and I. She calls me “Old Wally.” I don’t mind; I am old.
In this
same corner outside my window is a lovely tree my wife
calls “the Popcorn Tree.” I am sure it has a more sophisticated name, but who
cares? Popcorn Tree was good enough for my mama, and now my wife, so it is good
enough for me too.
Soon its
beauty will rival that of the white roses as Angie, Pete, and I look on in awe.
Pete, you must have guessed, is the name of the Popcorn Tree.
Pete can
hardly wait to dazzle us all with his gorgeous white flowers this fall. He too
is a showoff. But that is really not a bad thing for flowers now, is it?
Under the
shade tree I see our swing, freshly painted, forest green I think. A swing is a
wonderful invention. Not as important, mind you, as the mute button, but still
high on the list of wonderful things.
My wife
loves the poetry of Robert Louis Stevenson. One of her favorites is the one
about “How I love to go up in a swing.” I love to hear her recite that poem
because it brings out the child in her and I enjoy seeing that.
Actually
Stevenson has hooked me. I cannot look at a swing, anywhere, anytime, without
thinking of his charming poem about the swing, and how much my wife loves all
three – the poem, the swing, and the poet.
There are
many other things which I enjoy outside my study window. But I hear the swing
beckoning me now. So please excuse me. I must find Dean. I will invite her to
go up in the swing with Old Wally.
We will
swing for awhile, and for a few golden moments we will not think about the
stock market or any of our aches and pains. Swinging does wonders for old
folks.
Oh, you
must have guessed by now – the swing’s name is Sammy. He enjoys Rosie and Pete
too. I can tell by the way he laughs when he swings us high up in the air. He
knows that we enjoy being children again.