The couple who built the home we live in . . . live on . . . They live on in the structure, sure, but extraordinarily in the foliage. I estimate 50 to 75% of the plant life on our 1.3 acres was intentionally cultivated by them. There is a breathtaking sense of the wild and the natural and the where did that come from all mixed together in our yard. One thing spills into another.
Frequently I find myself whispering in awe at their legacy.
Roman carts in Britain carved such enduring grooves in the pathways and roadways of the time that all subsequent vehicles were constructed with similar proportions — to better navigate the rutted roads of England. This pattern continued all the way down to the founding of railroads, so that the tracks laid down were similar in proportion to the wheelbase of Roman chariots . . . .
My Mom is an emphatically compassionate woman. If you get her on the phone, be forewarned, you will listen to her regale you with life tales of those she meets. That she might emphasize the woe is only because MomJo at heart is a caregiver, and she wants to get right into the marrow of a person’s life and emote it with them.
Her legacy lives in us, her children. We’re all fascinated by the deep turnings in the lives of people we meet. I know others who could care less, but that wouldn’t be possible for a child of MomJo.
The patterns we establish carry on, far beyond our horizon.
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