Question

I had a discussion this weekend about life being hard. It is so hard for some people, but I do not put myself in that category. Whatsoever. For my Dad, life began hard. He moved to Memphis during the Great Depression to help squeeze out a living for his family working their small farm in Gibson County, TN.

Life was hard for them and consequently, hard for him. He survived one season on turnips he grew in the backyard of the boarding house where he lived. (Which is another story for another time.)

He vowed never to eat turnips again. And he did not. But one Christmas, having heard the turnip-survival story for years, my brother gave him turnips. Honestly, I can recall we held our breath when he opened the package. Would he think it was funny? Had 40 years been long enough to ease the pain and fear?

In looking at these photos of him studying those turnips, I can only imagine the flood of memories. Remembering the fear of being hungry. Remembering the smell as they boiled and the taste that butter, salt and pepper could not mask. His pursed lips speak to the determination and grit that carried him through that difficult.

For my Dad, blessings were counted.

Even if they were turnips.