Serving the High Plains
Serving the High Plains
I’ve been thinking about my dad more so than usual. Probably because it’s August, his birth month.
August has always been a time of celebration because of my dad’s birthday. I’d start practi-baking the beginning of the month for the grand shindig on the 31st. Even though it’s been a little over four years since he’s been gone, that practice hasn’t stopped.
I always make my Grandma Sarah’s spice cake during this time of year. This recipe is about a hundred years old. It belonged to my great-grandmother, as the story goes. I always feel connected to the women who’ve gone before me as I blend the spices together for this cake. This was my dad’s favorite, so, it’s a double helping of memories.
Really, throwing together this cake is more than honoring the memory of one of my most favorite people; it’s about honoring the life he lived and the lessons he instilled. When I’m mixing up cake batter, I’m also mixing up a lifetime of memories.
Dad was true to his word, and never spoke badly of a person to make himself look better. He said what he meant, which could be pretty spicy at times. But, you always knew where you stood with him. He lived in truth and expected others to do the same.
He stood up for his beliefs. He loved fiercely. He was a man of faith and honor. He instilled that sense of honor in all of us. We were taught that if we said something, we’d better do it. That our word was our bond. That we needed to be good for something, not just good at something. He was equal parts serious and goofy. His smile could light up a room, and his laugh was infectious.
There really isn’t anything about him that I don’t miss. I miss our conversations. I miss him telling me about a story or book that he’d read, or a show that he’d seen. I miss debating politics (speaking of spicy). I miss talking about the news of the day (equally spicy). I miss hearing about his growing up in Rhode Island, the stories about working for the vet, and working on the docks. I miss hearing about the fires he worked. I miss hearing about the B-52s (the planes not the group). I could probably recite the stories word for word, but it’s not the same as hearing him tell and retell them.
One of the beautiful things about whipping up a family recipe is that I can spend time lost in those stories and wrapped in love. I can see my Grandma Sarah clearly as I pour spice cake batter into pans. I can see her sparkly eyes (like Dad’s) when I make a daffodil cake. I see Dad’s smile on my nephew Gavin’s face when he’s holding cookies. Dobson clan’s motto: two hands, two cookies, or muffins or cupcakes, etc.
I can see the smile on Dad’s face as he sat amidst more than 100 cards and letters on the dining room table, as family and friends helped him celebrate his 80th birthday. I am wrapped in family memories and love as I begin his birthday month. I haven’t a clue what cake will grace the birthday shindig; but I know the event will be filled with decades of memories. Happy heavenly birthday, Dad. I love you to the moon and back.
Patti Dobson writes about faith for The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact her at:
