She’s called “The City of Trees,” this place we’ve called home for at least part of each year, these past fifteen years. And she’s a charmer. I remember the first time we visited being struck with how beautiful the sky was . . . its wide blue arc stretching from the foothills and red-rocked cliffs on the southeast to the miles and miles of farmland on the opposite side of the city. Evenings, this sky is luminescent. I’ve never lost my fascination with it. Idaho’s capital is a rapidly-growing city but still has its big open sky . . . and a river that runs through it. The tree-lined pathway of the Greenbelt follows the north and south sides of the Boise River for twenty-five miles right through the heart of Boise. She’s a city with small-town charm.

It will be hard to leave. So many memories . . . grandkids growing from grade-schoolers into adults—Birthday breakfasts at Rembrandt’s coffee house before checking in late to school, dinners downtown, homes made and holidays shared, dreams dreamed and dreams relinquished, celebrations and heartaches, all part of the circuitous path of life. We’ll be visitors next time we come back.

We survived the selling and emptying of a house! Our big kids, and professional movers, saved us. Things we may use someday are tucked away in storage. Everything else that won’t fit in our little cabin was sent to consignment stores or given away. We’re recuperating a bit before the drive back up to the lake and preparing for the kids arrival the end of the month.

Now, it is July 4th. A warm evening breeze moves through the leaves above Rex and Cindy’s back deck, the dappled light making art of each face. The burgers and sausages are on the grill, the counter inside laden with platters of watermelon and pineapple, salsas and chips, Mom’s Potato Salad and Baked Beans. My son had called from the grocery store two days earlier to ask what brand of dill pickles Grandma used in her potato salad, and later for the recipe for my baked beans. I’d miss that call if he didn’t make it every year. We’re always at the cabin for the Fourth of July, hosting. But today I relax in this circle of the ones I love most, feeling only gratitude. We are still here. We are well. We are loved . . . and we’re still dreaming new dreams. What more could two old folks desire?

As we sit on the grassy hill watching rowdy games of Spike Ball, my youngest son’s phone rings. The game stops. It’s the call from Oregon we’ve been waiting for. He’s here! Our first great grandchild, born on the Fourth of July, mama and baby healthy. Our hearts are full. One of his grammas says, “He’s a lucky boy. Every year he’ll think the fireworks are just for him.” Welcome to the family Miles. And yes, you’re a lucky little guy.

Hold tight to the sounds of the music of living
Happy songs from the laughter of the children at play
Hold my hand as we run
Through the sweet fragrant meadows
Making memories of what was today
We have this moment to hold in our hands
And to touch as it slips
Through our fingers like sand
Yesterday's gone
And tomorrow may never come
But we have this moment today . . .

4 thoughts on “City of trees

  1. Congratulations, Baby Sister! A grand baby on the fourth of July, and a family feast, what could be better?

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  2. Congratulations! Nothing better than Grands, unless it’s Greats! And you’re not leaving permanently; you’ll be back next year. Those trees who could leave them permanently?

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    1. Thank you! He is a cutie. Hunter sends a picture every day. Can’t believe Im old enough to be a Great Gramma! And yes, Im sure we’ll be back with all the kids still here.

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