On a warm summer Sunday in June of ’57, my parents and I attended the Oakthorpe School Reunion held at the Oakthorpe School House. At eight years old, I was the same age as my parents when they attended grade school there. Seven-year-old Marilyn and her family were with us that day as well.
The one room school house still stands, a little worse for the wear, but her corners remain straight and true and a good eyeballing will confirm the walls haven’t lost their plumb. Her hand-poured glass windows have lost their battle to vandals known only to her. But she continues to rest under a huge oak tree across from Oakthorpe Church where I first met Jesus and Marilyn. You can imagine how special that place remains in my heart.
In my youth, I had no idea how profoundly that place would impact my life—but my keen memory of that afternoon has to do with my Dad and old cars. After lunch, we walked the freshly mowed lawn picking fried chicken from our teeth and admiring a few of the newer cars parked on the freshly mown lawn. An old friend of Dad’s recognized him and spoke, “Hey, Marvin, I hear there’s an old car show at the fairgrounds in Lancaster this afternoon, are you and your son interested in driving in to take a look?”
Within moments we had piled into one of the prettiest ‘57 Fords I’d ever seen. It was a coral red and beige hardtop with matching upholstery. I was mesmerized by its gleaming paint and chrome. To be suddenly ushered into a brand new Ford finished in the latest designer colors created in me a memory-burn that remains to this day.
But the greatest part of my day waited under the towering sycamore trees of the Fairfield County Fairgrounds.
As we glided down Rising Park’s hill and passed the gates of the fairgrounds, I was agog to see for the first time in my life row after row of gleaming antique automobiles.
I hope you too, have wonderful childhood memories. It seems my fondest memories usually include my father and cars.
The Lancaster Old Car Show, which I believe began that same year, remains a wonderful source of pleasure for me even today. As I walked the fairgrounds last weekend, I was drawn again into those powerful memories. I splurged on a sandwich bigger than both my fists and a lemon shakeup. Burdened with my food purchase, I sought out a less conspicuous spot to enjoy my lunch. I prayed none of my fitness-minded parishioners would stumble upon me as I devoured the forbidden fruit.
Sitting down in the flickering leafy shadows of one of the fairgrounds’ glorious sycamore trees, I couldn’t help overhearing a dramatic conversation from a man who nearly stepped on me as he sidled up to my tree. He leaned against its soft white and grey bark and shouted into his cell phone, “What! You’re under a what? A sycamore tree? I don’t see a sycamore tree anywhere!”
I’m not sure but I think I spewed lemon-shake-up onto his pant leg. He looked down and said, “Hey, dude, do you know where there’s a sycamore tree on these grounds? My buddy says he’s set up under a sycamore tree.”
I carefully weighed in my mind, “Do I embarrass him for not knowing a sycamore when he’s leaning against one, or do I try to answer his question without impugning his dignity?” I believe it was the overpowering glow of nostalgia that nudged me in a kinder direction. I slowly stood, reflected a moment as though he had thrown me a high fast one, and then carefully pointed out several sycamores under which his friend may be waiting. He thanked me and marshaled on.
I don’t find it difficult to overlook my friend’s sycamore-blindness. I make the same mistake often in my spiritual walk: I fail to see God’s blessings even when I’m leaning against them. The Bible reminds us,
“Whatever is good and perfect is a gift coming down to us from God our Father, who created all the lights in the heavens. He never changes or casts a shifting shadow.” James 1:17
Don’t be like my friend. Learn to recognize your blessings, and thank God for them.
Read Ron’s column, Simple Faith, each Saturday on the Faith Page (page 3) of the Lancaster Eagle Gazette, or visit www.lancastereaglegazette.com.