Today’s words are a tribute to my brother T. Wayner Miller. Earlier this week T. Wayne lost a prolonged battle with illnesses that slowly robbed him of his robust life. Older brothers hold a special place in their families and those of us fortunate to be the “little brother” often find them as the teacher with lessons we mimic or avoid. I will admit I have been a model little one as I learned early to avoid his more daring escapades which usually either resulted in a broken bone or hours in his room. And try, as hard as possible, I could never copy his skills on the baseball diamond, casting a fly into a spirited stream or judging the angle for your next shot at a fleeing pheasant. We were much like the trees in our forest needing a slight distance between one another to grow and expand our reach yet always depending on the other to provide nurture. T. Wayne will be missed; he was a good brother, husband, father, and friend.
As I have shared during the previous few months, the landscape surrounding our home has changed dramatically during the period due to the necessary harvesting of diseased pine trees. However, there remains a select area of live oak trees as their limbs cast a needy shade to provide a slight reprieve from our current sweltering heat. We also have the same natural tree coverage extending beyond the house into our protected conservation area along the bubbling creek bed.
Most importantly remaining are a few towering sentry yellow pines continuing to serve as beacons as we drive along the twisting county road in search of our driveway minus its gate and the massive posts anchoring the entry to our drive. The timber harvesters earlier removed the gate and post; the post and fence will be repaired; however, I doubt the gate will ever be replaced.
The trucks and equipment are all gone now and workers will not return until January to begin the process of planting pine trees for the next generation of stewards for this South Georgia dirt. The magnificent trees remain as though the tips of their highest branches reach for the evening stars and noon day sun. Our “trophy” trees do not have the girth of those western red cedars or redwoods from the forest of our western friends or the oaks with their dripping Spanish moss found along the South Carolina coast. Our towering trees however do have one feature none of the other remarkable examples can offer – each was planted as a seedling and nurtured by, now, five generations prior to my gazing upon the sentries for more than seventy years. I do not write this to boast of great wealth; there has never been any of that for those calling Johnson Farm as home.
I write of the history of those before us assuming the responsibility to leave, even the smallest piece, of our planet, a little better than how we began. The sentry trees are a rarity in their ability to withstand the summer thunderstorms with constant lighting being drawn to the highest trees as if they were magnets pulling heaven’s electricity to the ground. We watched only a few years back as a massive hurricane swept through our region destroying farmland, toppling tens of thousands of pecan trees, and leaving communities with subsequent layers of brilliant blue tarps for roof protection from the next day’s rain. Through all this the few trees remain. They remain as though telling a story of planting roots, growing straight and tall while extending your branches to protect those in your care.
You must understand after three-quarters of a year of reading my weekly missives that I give personal attributes to the trees found within our forest and especially to those having been around long prior to my arrival as a child. The characteristics of friends and family members, under the right beam of sunlight or the softest cascading rain, are found in each of the timbers occupying space on the forest floor.
The trees with their gnarled limbs and miniature statute. The stately trees with trunks as straight as an arrow and canopies covering the forest floor as large as a house. The magnificent ones with a girth requiring several sets of arms to reach around. The massive bodies of a tree unbending in even the strongest hurricane winds or the wisp of tree not much larger than the sprig of an Arkansas stalk of rice. Yes, each of these resemble those who have walked our paths and woods for generations. The same is true for those passing through our lives to nurture us along the way.
We often forget that, as with our forest, the responsibility of nurturing is a two-way street. We find great pleasure of watching and commenting on those not meeting our expectations while looking in the morning mirror and finding no fault with those staring through space into our eyes.
We appear to forget that our eyes are not the judge or the answer, instead all rests in the foundation others establish for us. We, likewise, plant the foundation for the ones coming behind us. Again, the story is as true in our forest as in your neighborhood of family and friends. If those long before our arrival on this place we call Johnson Farm had not carefully planted those seedlings and nurtured their growth, I would have nothing to enjoy or admire daily. If I, and we, do not demonstrate concern of the seeds we plant be they kernels of corn, seedlings of redwoods, the spirit for a child’s growth, or the needs of those less fortunate – what then have we accomplished.
Thankfully, I am challenged each day to care for those less fortunate in whatever manner possible to achieve. I am forever grateful others, before our time on Earth was chosen, were as concerned of our future as they were of their own. It is good to have had a brother standing as a beacon casting a light for others to follow, we all need sentries watching over us and serving as a point of reference to set our steering in the proper direction. Hopefully, each of us, too, can be that beacon of light and the caretaker to nurture others we meet along the way.
Emory, So sorry to hear about your loss of your brother. Ellen