We have lived in current home on our idyllic little Shadow Wood Lane for over a quarter of a century.
When we first arrived, the entire perimeter of our shady backyard was surrounded by a wood panel fence. Even before the deal was finalized, it was apparent that the fence was in poor repair, and would have to be replaced in the not so distant future; a task that my father and I, subsequently, accomplished.
I cannot say we knew Earl and Faye very well, and I can count on two fingers the times we sat at their table. Once or twice, Mrs. Ude dropped by our house for a cup of coffee, or to inquire about one thing or another. And there was that one time that Earl clandestinely stole over, knocked on our door, and notified my wife that he was having a Mother’s Day gift for Faye delivered to our house for safe keeping.
For no particular reason, I suppose, I also recall a time when I strapped a new leash on my old dog, Buddy, and having walked a hundred yards towards our neighborhood dog path, Faye brought her vehicle to a halt by my side.
For the life of me, I cannot tell you the jest of our conversation. We may have talked about the nice (or impending bad) weather, or the price of eggs in China. Perhaps the topic of our short dialogue is unimportant now. What was and continues to hold any importance was the neighborly comradery we shared that day. And (I like to think) that each of us were in some small manner blessed and edified by the other.
Pt. 2
Earl was a government retiree; having worked for the immigration service in Miami. He was a gregarious little man, and his smile seemed to light up all out doors. He had a “gift for gab,” and enjoyed talking about his grandchildren, and his avocation as a creator of rock jewelry. And while my neighbor “did not wear his religion on his shirt sleeves,” I perceived his strong and abiding faith, and his investment of the fate of his soul to Him who loved him, and gave Himself for him.
Faye Nyhle Hunter played trumpet in high school and, (drum roll) won the National High School Championship Award (my terminology) in this musical discipline. She duel majored in Music Education, and English at the University of Miami, and went on to conduct band, and teach English at her high school alma mater. Faye and her husband, Earl, were active in the Disciples of Christ Church, and assisted in planting University Christian Church in South Miami. She served the campus ministry at the University of Miami, and was a lifelong member of Sigma Alpha Iota. (Women’s Honorary Music Society).
Faye Ude went on to lead Vacation Bible Schools and youth groups, and participated in vocal and hand bell choirs in her local church. She was a Girl Scout troop leader, and coordinated the sewing of uniforms for high school majorettes; of which her daughters were members.
The so obviously humble Earl once made my wife aware that, “Faye is a very important person in our church.” And, indeed, as she moved into her golden years, she was elected as an elder to her congregation.
Pt. 3
The Ude’s were a full twenty-five years older than ourselves, and it occurred to me that we would almost, certainly, witness their ‘departure.’ Once, a few years before Earl left us, he was admitted to the hospital; where my wife was privileged to serve as his nurse. He, subsequently, went on to his reward, and was united with the Master of his soul; while Faye continued to reside in the marital home for several years, thereafter.
However, as time wore on, Mrs. Ude experienced the untoward symptoms of her age. She didn’t stand quite as straight as she once had, and her steps slowed a bit. It was all too obvious that she would soon need some sort of assistance which living alone would not afford. Ultimately, Faye moved to Indiana to live with her daughter, and in recent years was reunited with the husband of her youth.
But to return to my earlier theme.
Not long after we moved into our home, and as a result of the
deplorable condition of the fencing along the border of our two
properties, my father and I took it down, and immediately installed
twelve or fifteen new panels. However, as you might well imagine, with
the passing of another decade, it was again, as it had been before, and
once again, I was forced to dismantle what I had previously installed.
However, this time around I made the decision to go ‘au natural,’ and
to allow our mutual border to remain unfenced.
Pt. 4
While the wooden fence separated our common backyards, I hadn’t given much thought to the flora which existed on the other side of the perimeter. However, once the artificial barricade came
down, I noticed a few unkempt hibiscus bushes, cactus, bromeliads …and fern. (I say, ‘unkempt’ since our aged nephews had long since gone on to their respective rewards).
The garden variety fern had been planted or had spontaneously sprouted along the other side of our fence line, and this far along my memory of having first seen them has long since faded. However, their presence along the demarcation line, which separated our properties, cannot be denied.
I recently viewed an old home video. My father, mother, wife and I, my brothers, my sister, my children and their children are involved in a backyard activity. The date imprinted on the lower right of the screen indicates that the gathering occurred in the early 90’s. And though the characters in the home movie appear to be moving, and breathing and talking, at this juncture, it is a moment forever frozen in time.
My parent’s retirement party
Not only are the ten or twelve members of my extended family, a full quarter century younger, the twenty-seven scrub oak trees shorter, and nine pink and white azalea bushes smaller than now, but he third of an acre which I claim as my own is almost totally bereft of ground cover; something which was about to change.
With the passing of years something almost imperceptible, and at the same time wonderful and mysterious, was going on above the root system of the oaks and azaleas, but beneath the top soil from which they sprung.
Pt. 5
For you see, once the fence was removed a dynamic was set into motion whose force refused to be denied. As I reflect upon it now, something rather like Newton’s Third Law.
“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
Something almost imperceptible, and at the same time, mysterious and wonderful.
For once that man-made barrier was removed, that lone strip of unkempt sword fern (Nephrolepis Exaltata) began their unassailable march across my little third of an acre; by way of their two-fold manner of reproduction. Its miniscule root system which fills up every millimeter of the soil to which it is exposed, and the spores which form beneath its fronds, and which, ultimately, are released and are scattered to the four winds.
And in a process that might well put rabbits or amoeba to shame that poor, unkempt, lonely strip of my neighbor’s fern proceeded to geometrically reproduce itself, and began its inexorable march across my tree and azalea laden backyard.
The contrast which exists between ‘then’ and ‘now’ is remarkable.
What an amazing difference over the course of a mere generation. Among hundreds of backyards in my “little neck of the woods,” there is not one like it. For as I cast my eyes across my little third of an acre, what greets my gaze is nothing less than remarkable. Untold thousands of rich, green, corporal fern! Two to three feet in height and permeating every square inch of territory; (save for what the trees and azaleas first claimed).
The view which stretches before me is nothing less than breath taking, and I am hard pressed to say whether I liked it better before or after; since it was beautiful then, and it is as beautiful now.
Pt. 6
And in all of this I find a metaphor.
None of us live to ourselves, nor die to ourselves. And the best and brightest among us, those who are all too aware of their mortality, and the cruciality of making the most and best of life…will make a difference, and leave something of themselves behind.
My dear neighbors, Earl and Faye, were creatures of impact. They, and countless others like them, are the giants upon whose shoulders we stand. And I think, perhaps, their impact and influence while they lived is not unlike the growth and reproduction of those miniscule roots of that single row of Nephrolepis Exaltata. That slow, but steady, almost invisible permeation of their society, one here and two there, and among those whom God hath set in their pathway.
And not unlike the removal of that fence line, the stimulus and resulting impetus which allowed that lovely green floral carpet to spread across the literal (and proverbial) landscape. The legacy which may only properly be referred to as a ‘legacy’ when derived by way of death, and among those whom we leave in our wake.
Truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. (John 12:24)
Very much like those multiplied kernels of wheat to which our Lord alluded. So much like the spores of my dear neighbor’s fern which wafted among the four winds, and ultimately
led to that multiplied abundance of flora which fills up my little third of an acre.
For they are not forgotten and their deeds go before them. And there are countless among us who live and breathe and move, whose lives have been enriched, and are better for having known them. And they have not only left a spiritual, but a genealogical lineage to carry on in their place, and among whom they continue to exercise rich impact.
Their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren. Teachers and musicians and professional business people. And plumbers and nursing assistants and military men and women. Actors and photographers. And others.
Afterward
Two dear unassuming people with a keen sense of their own mortality, and a fierce determination to make a difference, while they could, among those whom they could.
And I believe, like them, we ought to be taken up with honoring the Heritage we have received, fulfilling our Destiny, and leaving a Legacy.
I can never gaze across that rich expanse of green without thinking of them.
William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary, Vol. 40. Copyright Pending.
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