Palaces of cedar

Unanticipated bonus of this whole yard project: the smells.

Now, granted, I have a very sensitive smeller, so maybe this won’t apply to everyone…but the smells, the smells…they are getting me. I *adore* the smell of a freshly pinched tomato sucker. And bitty E tells me the newly blooming bee balm “smells like cleaner.” {I’m going to have to use The Google on that one…} The dirt, even some of the fertilizer {that’s weird, right?}, my herbs…I love it all.

But there is one smell that is getting me good.

We used 4×4 cedar posts to construct the raised beds. While The Big Guns were here, they went ahead and cut the remaining posts to construct an archway over our fence gate at a later point in time. {Sometimes Big Guns tire of carting around Heavy Electric Saws.}

Those cedar posts have taken up residence in our garage, just to the side of my car. And they have lit up our garage. Previously the garage smells were not of such a nice variety. Yes, on occasion, based on perfect weather conditions and zero humidity, the garage would smell pleasant. Like a garage should. However, we live in the deep south. Like, put on your diving gear deep. And we have a toddler. So most days our garage smells like hot trapped trash.

Enter cedar posts, stage right.

 

Back story: I have some grandparents who are of no relation to me. We lost all of our blood grandparents too early, and the loveliest couple who lived in our cul-de-sac stepped in. {So well, in fact, that my sister–previously of shin bruise fame–didn’t figure out that we weren’t actually related until high school…but I digress…}

 

Grammie and Grampie wintered in Florida where we grew up, and then headed back home to their lake cabin up north when the Yankee weather simmered down.

Sometimes waiting for them to come back to Florida took a sweet for-ev-er.

Sometimes we would swim in their pool until we pruned, linger long over meals at their house, and play elaborate games of town when their actual grandchildren came to visit.

Sometimes Grammie would put just the perfect amount of butter on an Eggo waffle.

And sometimes Grampie {a retired fireman} would call my mom swearing and spitting because he could see the candles lit too close to the drapes in the front room of our house.

Sometimes Grammie would take us with her on errands in her wagon, laughing that laugh I could spot at 100 yards with my eyes closed.

And sometimes Grampie’s thumb would actually glow green as he became one with his immaculate yard and perfectly sculpted plants.

{These are special grandparents, and no, you can’t have them.}

 

 

Over the years they invited us to their lake cabin up north where we would spend a long week doing all the same activities with a distinctive northeastern twist. {Poor People’s Pub, anyone?}

Those same games of town, plus bumper pool, trips in the canoe to see the beavers, homemade ice cream a-plenty, catching minnows, rope swinging…

And, oh, Grampie’s fried shrimp.

That lake cabin is hallowed ground. And it’s made of cedar.

 

{I’m going to need a minute.}

 

 

So now every time I set foot in my garage, that distinct smell hits me and the sweet memories they do pour.  It connects me to that place and that time, and most importantly, those people. I know I’ve done nothing to deserve the precious love of two people who have loved so selflessly, so endlessly, a family to whom they have no blood relationship. I couldn’t earn it, I had nothing to offer: I was only a child. They just saw a need, took the initiative, and gave themselves.

And that reminds me of someone else I know.

“In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross.”  {Philippians 2:5-8}

Sure, David and I give of ourselves now…rarely a day goes by that one {or both} of us don’t feel like the bitties have sucked the last little bit of life or squelched some remaining smidge of independence. But they’re ours. And we’ve got it bad for them. One day, may we look beyond our little nest, pull a Grammie and Grampie, and build a palace of cedar for someone else.