Daddy's Dedication Decoration Day is this coming Sunday so I made the trip to Sodom yesterday to check on the rosebush. My sister and I planted it at the head of Daddy's grave when he died two years ago. He loved roses ... especially what he called, "them big, red, pie-plate sized ones that smells so good." I went to the homeplace first. The house was so quiet. Daddy's scent no longer rushed out to me when I opened the door. As I walked through the familiar rooms that had known us - my father, my mother, my sister June, and me - as four parts of a whole, my heart ached with the understanding that our voices would never again blend to create those precious harmonies and rhythms that my soul translated to mean family. During a particularly difficult time a month or so after Daddy's death, I remarked to my mother how I felt as though a huge hole had opened in my life that would never be full again. "That hole will never go away, honey," she said. "You'll learn to live your life around it." It was not too long after that conversation that I started to sing 'My Dearest Dear' ... about the same time the rose was planted. If you read the words you'll understand how this ballad became an integral part of my process of healing. "And when you're on some distant shore, think on your absent friend..." I'd like to share some thoughts about my father, Ervin Adams. He was a man of great strength. He had known physical labor in his life and had the rock hard hands to prove it. He was a great "fixer" - lawnmowers, light switches, washing machines, water faucets - if it was broken, he could make it work again. He was also a man of laughter with a wicked sense of humor that was so dry and quick. He was a politician and had the charm to prove that, too. He lived hard, grabbed onto life with both of those huge hands. He had a memory that was long ... his stories were so detailed and rich with imagery it was as if he finger painted them in my mind. He was my place of refuge during my many times in need of just such a place. The rose needed pruning. As I clipped the thick, thorny stems I smiled. How like my father this rose was ... so bristly and prickly on the outside, but capable of such a soft and delicate beauty from within... I love you Daddy. This one is all for you. Sheila Kay Adams June 1, 2000