A Memory

The other day I had a memory flash into my mind that happened years and years ago.  I was holding Nate and he had a snotty nose.  He rubbed his face into my shoulder and came away with stringy snot attached to both my shirt and his face (how's that for a pleasant visual?).  I am normally very grossed out by snot.  I used to gag and dry heave when my brother would spit in the sink.  I hate gooey snot.  So that speaks volumes about how much I love my kids.  I wipe their noses with my own shirt sometimes if I don't have a tissue.  That's why I try to avoid wearing black or navy blue when Nate has a cold.
Anyway, as I watched Nate's snot spring back to his face when he pulled away from me, I realized that I really must love that kid.  I didn't drop him and run for cover.  I didn't even gag.  I just wiped his nose with my shirt and moved on.  I would do it for any of my kids.  That's love isn't it?
So, on to the memory.  I must have been young.  I was riding in the snow plow truck with Dad.  He used to plow the parking lots of restaurants so we could eat for free.  Most of the time, he was out plowing while we were all asleep, but this was a day that I was awake and I was lucky enough to ride with him.  I remember being jostled around quite a bit because we never wore seat belts back then.  I remember him pushing the fresh snow into the snow hills with enough force to make the snow stick and fling me into the dash.
I remember watching the big flakes hit the windshield and asking him what would happen if our wipers didn't work.  I was terrified when he turned them off...so afraid that he couldn't see what he was doing and we would crash. 
Now, I'm sure you are wondering what in the world this memory has to do with Nate and his booger incident.  Well, sometime in the middle of this snowplow date, I found the need to pick my nose.  I don't remember the pick, but I do remember the big juicy booger I had on my finger.  I didn't know what to do with it.  I didn't want to wipe it on the seat and I certainly didn't want to eat it.  There weren't any napkins in sight, so dad told me to wipe it on his jeans.  I was shocked.  "Really?  On your pants?"  He told me it would wash out.  So I wiped it on his pants. 
That's love.
It's sad that my mind can't easily recall my dad's face.  The images I have in my head are ones from pictures.  The smiles I see are ones that are posed for the camera.  I hate that I am losing that part of my life.  So as gross as this memory is, it's one that I will treasure.  It leads to other memories.  Memories of his jeans.  I would hold onto the pocket of his pants when we went places so my smaller siblings could hold his hands and we would all be right with him and not get lost.  I can almost see my small hand in his back pocket.
I can see his jeans poking out from under the kitchen sink or a car, or at the construction site.  Dusty and dirty.  I almost hear the keys and coins jingle in his pocket as they made his pants sag.  He went through a suspender phase where he wore suspenders to keep his pants up.  I'm sure if he would have unloaded a few of those keys, or his fat wallet, he could have kept them up.  I'm not kidding when I say that he probably had 30 or 40 keys to various things in his pockets at all times.  His back pocket had a faded white patch where his wallet had worn it out.  At night, he'd empty his pockets and put the change on the table, take off his watch and wrap it around his wallet and put it all in a pile with his keys.  I'd rumage through his change and take all his pennies.
Thinking of his keys puts the picture of his strong hands into my mind.  I can see him holding the set in his palm as he searches for the key he needs.  I love those hands.  I sit here with tears rolling down my face because I can so vividly see those hands in my mind. 
I don't know if I have talked about this on the blog or not, but my senior year of college I took a photo class.  We had an assignment where we had to use light.  I was in Orem for the weekend and I took a few pictures of Lacy, our family dog laying in the sun.  I took pictures of my mom reading the paper in a bright room but nothing was feeling right for the project.  Just as it was time to go back to Logan,  I decided to photograph my dad's hands.  He was the Bishop of their ward so he was down at the church having meetings.  I took my light and my camera and went in to find him.  He was so happy to see me there.  He was always so proud of his kids and showed us off to everyone he was with.  He would brag our latest accomplishments and dare the person he was with to show him a prettier girl or a more handsome guy.  We'd stand there blushing and wish he would quit as we secretly enjoyed the praise.  I guess I can't talk for my brothers and sisters, but I know he did it to all of us.  Anyway, on this day of the pictures, I stood there as he introduced me to the people of the meeting and listened to him sing my praises and then we went into a private room to take pictures. 
It didn't take long and I was out the door and back to school.  I remember developing the film in the dark room and watching my dad's hands magically appear on the paper.  I knew I had captured them perfectly.  Then he died.  Those pictures became treasures.
So, I'm sure the snotty story was a gross introduction to this blog post, but I had to share it.  I had to share the way that snot on my shirt and my love for my baby led to me remembering my dad and his love for me.  I am a lucky girl to have such amazing parents.  I know that they both loved me with all their hearts.  Sometimes I worry about what our kids will do with their lives and wonder if I am not doing enough to help them on their way.  But I do know that I love them.  I love them more than they can even understand right now.  I love them as much as my parents love me and that's a lot of love.