A July Evening in College Station

I learned to garden from my dad. He and his brother John were both PhD botanists from the University of Nebraska who found themselves working at Texas A&M for most of their careers.

Dad taught me how to work that Brazos County clay. How to plant beans. How to plant marigolds. How to mow our yard and trim our shrubs and trees. He was 42 when I was adopted, and from that point on he pretty much devoted all his spare time to putting up with me at his side.

And so it was the evening of July 17, 1954, when we formed a square frame beneath my water faucet on which I could set buckets or wash tools. He made a quick cut-in for the faucet, and then he called me over to help trowel the setting cement smooth. I still have that old trowel out in the garage. I’ve used it several times since.

But then the big thrill came when he told a 10-year-old kid to press down his hand to make a handprint in the concrete. And my name and age and the date. And my dog’s name and paw print.

Jump ahead many years. I was doing my radio program on KRLD one Saturday morning. A lady from College Station was asking about various shrubs and perennials. I finally mentioned she was calling from my hometown. She replied, “Yes. I know. In fact, I believe we live in your old house.” I had been answering questions about the plants I had planted.

Jump ahead another few years. I came into the studios at KRLD, and there on my seat was an 80-pound hunk of concrete along with a note saying, “We were moving to Plano, and I thought you might want to have this.”

My beloved old steppingstone faucet pad that Dad and I made 72 summers ago is in a prime spot in our landscape.

It’s a story I love to tell. Old guys have stories like that.

And did you hear me mention on my radio program a week ago Sunday that that date – July 19 – would have been my parents’ 100th wedding anniversary?

So many wonderful things for which to be grateful.

Thanks for reading my story.