Monday Report – Week 4

This weeks Monday report is a little different.

It’s a special post for me.

You see, my Dad always grew a garden. He was so proud of his harvests.

We were always trading tips and ideas. One year, for Father’s Day, I presented him with a watering wand, like this one…


He was amazed. His words were, “That thing is the trick!” That made me giggle.

He usually planted by the sign of the moon. One year I planted by the sign and he didn’t.

He said, “Well, you planted in the sign and I planted in the dirt. We’ll see what happens.” Made me giggle, too.

His garden was always more productive than mine. One because his soil was better and two because being retired he had more time to work with it.

But these seeds here…


and here….(my Dad’s handwriting)


Are seeds from one of my Dad’s gardens. He let the fruit go to seed, then dried the seeds and carefully placed them in this envelope and gave them to me.

I’ve had them tucked safely away until the time came that I could plant them and look after them, so I could continue saving seeds from his garden.

I don’t know the original origin of the seeds, but I know they came from plants my Dad nurtured.

And they are special to me.

I hadn’t told you about them before, because they are several years old and I wasn’t sure they would germinate.

But they have….

In this picture are sprouts from the seeds of my Dad’s cantelope harvest.


I remember one day my brother brought cantelope to me from Dad’s garden. It was the sweetest cantelope I think I’ve ever eaten. The seeds are from his harvest that year.

And in this picture are watermelon sprouts from his saved seeds.


I cried when I seen each of them coming through the soil, pushing their way toward the sun.

No, I won’t see my Dad again until I get to Heaven and get to work in God’s garden.

But I can carry on his memory with the seeds he saved for me.

And hopefully, atleast one of my kids will carry on his memory in their garden.

Do you have seeds that have been passed down from generations before you?


Mongoose Box

On a previous post, I asked if anyone had ever heard of a mongoose box.


Not one person mentioned ever having heard of one.

Personally, I’ve never seen one. But because my Dad, being the jokester that he was, I have heard of one.

Before I was born, my cousin lived with my parents for a short time, along side my brother. They were the same age.

My Dad came home from work one day with a box. The box sat on the counter through supper and into the evening. Boys, being boys, their curiosity was getting the best of them.

My Dad was a great story teller. He could describe things so vividly, you’d think you were there, living it. He would describe in such detail that by the time he got to the end, you were bursting to know the outcome.

He began telling a story about a hunter and a mongoose.

I can imagine how my Dad had them enthralled with this elusive mongoose.

I can see those two eight year old boys sitting in the floor at my Dad’s feet. Wide-eyed and hanging on every word as my Dad unfolded the tale before them.

My brother, knowing my Dad, would not be duped into sticking his nose anywhere near that box.

My cousin, on the other hand, was in the middle of everything. Wanting to be the first to receive the candy or the first to hear the good news. Whatever the situation, he had to be first.

And on this day, he learned a valuable lesson.


Let me tell you how this mongoose box was described to me.

The box looks like a cage, but you can’t see what’s inside.

It has a squirrel tail attached to the inside top of the box that moves when the lid is lifted.

Also inside, a thin piece of wood that slaps a piece of tightly stretched screen. Causing a shotgun blast sound you hear when the lid is lifted.

I can only imagine how my Dad had built up the imaginations of these little boys as he yarned the story of this captured mongoose.

The mongoose that was supposed to be entrapped inside this box, trying desperately to get out.

I can see my Dad holding this box, jerking is around as if something may be moving inside. Maybe occasionally, scratching or tapping the box, just to add more drama to the tale.

As he approached the end of the story, he moves to the floor, so the boys could get a good look at this mongoose in the box.


He lifted the lid, the squirrel tail twitched, the shotgun blasts…

My Mom and brother jump…

And my cousin who is hovering over this box, runs screaming across the room headlong into a wall, that he desperately tries to climb.

My Mom could not tell that story without tears of laughter as she remembered the day my cousin tried to climb the wall.

My brother would laugh.

My Dad would chuckle, as he always did.

And my cousin’s eyes would widen and a slight grin would appear as he remembered. It was almost as if he relived it everytime it was told.

You know, I don’t think he ever got over that.

But I promise you this, he learned, that day, to stand back when my Dad began yarning a tale.

Out Cold

When my Dad was young and still living at home…

He and one of his sisters had a disagreement.

And obviously, she was a little more upset than he was.

He said she came at him with a butcher knife.

Not knowing what to do and had to think quick or be stabbed.

He knocked her out cold.

He told me it was the only time in his life he had ever hit a girl.

He felt bad that he had to take such measures but he knew she was just as determined to stab him,

as he was to defend himself.

I can still see him shaking his head in remorse as he told me that story.