One of my most vivid memories of my Granddad Brady was from the vantage point of our porch. My granddad was the only grandparent I ever saw. I was very young when he died so I don’t remember much about him. There is one thing that clearly sticks out in my memory. On one of those hot southern Kentucky summer evenings as the sun was setting, thousands of noisy black birds flew in from the south, and headed toward the oak trees in our yard. Those birds flew as one, moving together back and forth forming what resembled a dark cloud not sure where it was going. Such an amazing sight it was! The giant oaks stood strong, arm in arm, unfazed by the onslaught of these feathered intruders.
Granddad sat watching until the last bird landed on its roost. The noise was deafening — every bird singing off key so it seemed. Granddad got up and went inside. Soon he returned with his 12 gauge, double barreled, shotgun. He walked out into the yard, a cigarette hanging out the side of his mouth, and his old felt hat on his head. He always wore that hat cocked to one side. Mom said he wore it like that to impress the ladies.
With shotgun in hand granddad walked quietly to a place under the oak trees. Slowly he raised his gun and took careful aim. I don’t know what he could have possibly seen as he looked up into the dark canopy. He picked his spot, fired his first shot, then immediately the second. I saw the fire flame from each barrel, and jumped, startled by the loud booms although I knew they were coming. Granddad ran back toward the house as he fired the last shot to avoid what seemed like hundreds of blackbirds from falling on him. As quickly and as noisily as the birds had flown in, they retreated back out into the darkness.
Finally, silence returned to the Brady homestead. Granddad walked back up onto the porch, broke down both barrels of his gun, took out the spent shells and handed them to me. It has been over sixty years and I can still remember the smell of that burned gunpowder. In some strange way I was very proud of my grandfather. In what was one of those special, priceless moments my granddad had expressed his love for me. That was the way men did that back then I suppose.
On the back side of our farm near our pond huge acorns dropped from the oak trees. Pretending the acorns were hand grenades I hurled them at the lazy, enemy, German frogs swimming in my make believe Atlantic Ocean. Large dragon flies glided just above the water dipping for a drink ever so often. Turtles would raise their heads to watch the bombardment of acorns, or so I imagined. Salamanders and crawdads sometimes were my playmates, willing or not. This was a great place for a young boy to spend time alone.
The oak trees were the playground and home for squirrels that I hunted in our woods. Overlooking the pond a large oak tree sheltered a mossy knoll where I spent hours thinking, pretending and enjoying time alone. I think it was at this sacred place where I first heard God speak to me.
There were some days when the limbs of those oak trees ascended like stair steps, higher and higher daring my friends and me to climb further than the other. We climbed carefully and very often higher than we should not wanting to be labeled sissy's for being afraid. We surprised ourselves at the heights we reached, not realizing that someday we would be challenged as adults to climb even higher than we ever imagined we could climb, and for reasons much more important.
Every day God puts trees in our path and he says, “Climb, climb as high as you can go!” We can climb with confidence not fearing the dark clouds that descend on us, nor backing down when the task seems far too hard. We can achieve any goal that God wants us to accomplish. Like the majestic oaks which symbolically raise their arms toward God, we must focus our eyes on Him, lifting our arms to pray, always thanking him for the simple blessings that come because of His grace that costs us nothing.
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