Papa and the Dogwood

Maybe it is because we are loved by them that we pay attention to what grandparents have to teach us. We do not know them when they are sowing wild oats or even as they are struggling to raise their young familes. Grandchildren don't come along until people have have aged and ripened and have become aquainted with life's joys and sorrows and have learned what is of real and lasting value. Papa, my mother's daddy, was a proper, genteel man who in his later and quieter years, the ones of which I was a part, would place his straight-brimmed straw hat on his bald head and go outside and be among his trees. He loved and respected them all but had a particular sense of reverence toward the dogwood. I remember how he would gently hold a branch and gaze at the flowers as if they were sacred. I watched and absorbed his example; I listened as he told me not to break off a flower and felt that if I did, I would cause the tree pain. I did not understand why the dogwood was the most honored of trees but knew it was. Much later, as I myself ripened and learned about life, I heard the legend of the dogwood, how the pinkish-brown marks on the outside center of the petals represent the nail marks in the hands and feet of Jesus as He hung and died on the cross and how the cluster in the middle of the flower cross is a reminder of the crown of thorns. I think that is reason enough to respect this lovely tree. And every spring when the dogwoods are in bloom, I remember my Papa and what he passed along to me.