Family Memories, Favorite Things, Flowers, Life Lessons, Memories, Memories of Home, Remembrances, Spring, Spring Flowers


red-budsI love spring, don’t you?

Although it seems too soon, she decided to arrive early this year. And she’s done it with a shout.

Every trip in and out of my neighborhood has been glorious. Each week something new was in bloom.

I meant to stop and take pictures, but I was in too big a hurry to get to an appointment or take care of an errand, so I never got around to stopping. The hedgerow of bridal wreath has gone green–their tiny white flowers long blown away. The tulip trees are a bit bedraggled. (Like me on a bad hair day, they wouldn’t appreciate being photographed.)

But new wonders greeted me today, so I stopped and took some pictures. I thought I’d share them with you. Continue reading “SHOUTS OF SPRING”

Blessings, Comfort, Family & Friends, Gratitude, Life Lessons, Memories



It’s been a week since we said our goodbyes. They were leaving for Atlanta Friday morning, preferably by 6:00 a.m. Not wanting us to feel we had to get up to see them off, they insisted on hugs all around before heading to bed. It wasn’t long until we hit the sack, too.


It’s still dark when Terry whispers, “I hear them stirring.”


I glance at the clock—5:50 a.m. I throw off the covers and hop out of bed. As I slip on yoga pants and a shirt, Terry calls from the door, “They’re leaving. Caroline is already in the car.”

I scurry out.

Maria and Emily wait in doorway of the den. We hug and exchange I love yous. Then we follow them outside to give Caroline for one last hug through the window and catch Brad by the car door.

Before we know it, they’re backing out of the driveway. Their headlights sweep across the neighbor’s yard and onto the street. We wave from the porch and step back inside to watch their taillights disappear down the street.

No tears.

Just gratitude for time together and for the good life to which they’re returning. That old girl-kitty, Mimi, and the dogs, Max and Milo, miss them. Plus, they need to regroup before they head back to work and school on Monday.


I remind myself, we’ll see them again soon. Christmas will be here almost before we turn around.

img_3970Wait. Was that chocolate cake one of the girls was carrying to the car?

Perfect send off.






There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens: Ecc. 3:1

Helicopter Pilots, Memories

Remembering Will


Captain Wilbur Dale Latimer

May 23, 1944 – January 19, 1971

         My brother, Captain Wilbur Dale Latimer, was an Army helicopter pilot who was killed during his second tour of duty in Vietnam on January 19, 1971. This poem is the account of a visit by a fellow soldier who was there the day Will died. Clyde, who was 19 at the time, was supposed to fly that mission, but at the last minute Will bumped him. Clyde caught a ride in another chopper and witnessed it from afar.

        I will always be grateful for Clyde Romero’s visit which took place shortly after the first Gulf War began. I hope it helped him as much as it did me.

War Stories

New wars stir old soldiers in search of peace to bare their souls;

thus came Clyde’s call, long deferred, an offering of remembrances,

precious details of Will’s last day. Official notification reveals

so little when measured against a comrade’s recollections.

A visit held promise of new understanding and perhaps freedom

for him from an enduring guilt.

I called Mom and Dad; best friend, Jeff; wife long, remarried.

Jeff declined; the prospect too costly; why risk the peace he’d found.

Goodbyes said, he’d folded up their golden days and stowed them

securely out of sight. I understood such things allow no touching,

lest in the taking out and unfolding, one might disturb some invisible valve

that would inflate old sorrows till they filled the room and smothered life away.

But in a sister’s way, I had set our loss squarely before me that I might

take up this dark grief and turn it over in my hands to comprehend

and grow accustomed to its hollow feel, always looking for the why,

for a way Will’s death was not in vain. So as girls are wont to do,

I said, “Please come,” and we welcomed Clyde as he fearlessly unrolled

his tattered tale of a mission changed that gave him life but snatched our Will’s away.

As he laid the story out and smoothed it straight, we forged a bond,

based not on war but on love for his young captain who made the choice

to fly the chopper that awful day into the sights of an elusive enemy

whose careful aim and sure shot forever changed those left behind:

ours, an awful emptiness, for Clyde, the burden of survival,

a youth colored by the gray question, “Why Will and not me?”

As he spoke, I made my peace with our costly sacrifice.

A time to live, a time to die, who’s to say the why of it?

Our family’s only son, though gone from us, was still present

when an old warrior straightened his shoulders and

headed home in a strength only veterans understand.

Dorothy Latimer Johnson

I believe one of these days, I’ll see my big brother again. 
What a day of rejoicing that will be.
“Let not your hearts be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in me. 
In my Father’s house are many rooms. If it were not so, 
would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? 
John 14:1-2

Copyright © Reflections from Dorothy’s Ridge 2015. All rights reserved