After a long drought, the rainy weather last week definitely helped improve the garden situation.

It also helped the grass (and weeds) grow around the house. I hadn't even mowed in two weeks and it wasn't looking like it was going to be necessary for another week or so until the rain started. A few days of rain soon felt like monsoon season after such a long dry period. But the plants, so long dry and thirsty, took on the look of new life. You can now almost hear the plants forcing themselves up out of the ground like some real-world version of time-elapse photography. Cucumbers and corn, cabbage and beans, potatoes and onions, all had newfound energy and startling growth in just a few days.

But obviously not growing was my building project, which remains only half-roofed and subject to the whims of the elements. As I walked across the newly built floor, puddles of water splashed up on the cuffs of my pants. This probably isn't good for the plywood, I thought.

I picked up the roofing for the rest of the building Monday, but still need to finish preparing the roof trusses and walls of the building for the metal. That means placing boards either in between or atop the framing parts, to which the actual siding will be attached with screws.

In a way, I've been chomping at the bit to get back to work, but in another, it's been nice to take a few days off the project to recuperate lost rest and energy.

I took a little time Friday evening to mow the grass, which was definitely in need of attention. Saturday was booked solid with a menagerie of appointments. Two weddings, a concert and several other responsibilities all conspired together to steal away my time on Saturday, leaving me with little left to work with for myself. While the forecast called for rain, it ended up being a perfect day for working outside. Doesn't that figure?

In all reality, these concerns are pretty minor when compared with the real issues of life—mere occupancies of time that likely will matter very little as life goes by.

Two Deaths

Two people have died that had touched my life in the past, neither of which was living anywhere nearby.

One was a reader of the newspaper, while the other was a family member. I'll start with family.

My uncle John LaRue, a traditional Southern Baptist minister for many years in Danville, succumbed to various ailments after a hospital stay. He had received a doctorate from Wake Forest University back in the 1950s and spent the better part of his career as a minister. I can remember there was some degree of resentment from some others in the family because John was always his mother's favorite.

Even though he was seldom home, I can still here him calling Grandma, "Mother." He always called her that and it always sounded very proper. Although he was a product of the mountains, years at the university and later at Danville had colored his speech in such a way that it stood in stark contrast to that of the local men of the family. He also didn't have that rough edge that they shared, the calloused hands and wrinkled faces of men who spend too much time in the sun. I enjoyed several long talks with him, with the last one we shared having been one of the best I can recall.

He was one of three ministers to help at my father's funeral about one year and one month ago. It's hard to believe that both men are now gone, leaving only my uncle Frank, the youngest, as the last remaining LaRue sibling of his generation.

Where do we go from here? I suppose I can see the future coming with every funeral, the preceeding generations forgotten much like those who have gone long before. Not that I will forget, but history isn't usually kind to the anonymous masses.

While talking at that funeral, he shared a few details about my father that I didn't know and did a fine job of giving honor to his memory. John, who was a staff sergeant in the Army, even turned to give a sharp salute to his fallen brother and comrade. It was a picture of a distinguished elderly man, trying to offer what he saw as a fitting tribute.

I'll likely always have that sharp salute in mind when I think of him, instead of the earlier pictures of him as a more vital, yet more cultured and even somewhat odd, man coming to visit his family from 'way over' in Danville.

The other death was that of Juanita Barnado, a woman I first met several years ago while interviewing her mother, Guida Ingram. Ms. Ingram was 100 years old, while Ms. Barnado was in her 70s and still caring for her.

Both lived in a classic old home in Piney Creek that has since been leveled in the name of progress. However, the old home and the people who inhabited it will live on, if only in the minds of those who remember.

The home and the women were like a snapshot of times long past. Chopping wood for the old cookstove, which provided their source for food preparation and winter heat in a big old drafty house.

Likely if you had closed your eyes to the electric lights, it could easily have been 1900 instead of 2000.

Juanita, herself a widow whose family mostly lived in South Carolina, would sometimes call the newspaper to talk and share some of her thoughts on things. I always tried to take the time to listen to what was on her mind and I usually wasn't sad that I did.

About a year or two ago, she moved south to live with her daughter and sold her homeplace and the land around it. I heard from her just a few more times after she moved there.

At any rate, it's always sad to lose friends, but its also good to keep memories.

When I think of the Alleghany County friends and acquaintances I've lost to death, names like Wayne Williams, Pete McMillian, Del, Cleo and Homer Reeves, Laura and Wesley Gilliam, Kay Smith, Jordan Gallos and so, so many others come to mind. All were interesting and special in their own way.

Yet life goes on for the living; enriched by those who have passed through it, like portrait clippings in a collage of memories that will forever brighten the gallery in my mind.

Get more tongue in cheek commentary this week's issue of the Alleghany News!

Email: allnews@ls.net