Just off of Highway 55, the gravel-covered clay road shows the almighty signs of age and improvement. It's a little wider than it used to be but the sides have grown thick with over brush and each driveway is now marked with the new blue road signs. With each trip I make, the passing of time is shown by deepness of the ruts in the clay road, and never is it unnoticeable. When we pull into the drive, the scene that greets us is so different than the picture I have in my mind from the years ago. Fallen trees sit

where they once

reigned high into the country sky. Barns have made their descent into history. The once-bright red of the house has faded into a comforting ember. Time has so clearly made its imprint here. No longer is the drive lined with

four-o'clocks and butterfly bushes. Now the only border is a carefully weeded row between the edge of the drive and the grass yard.

The yellow rose bush, the one my father gave her, is still in the same spot thriving in the rain gutter shadow. Small violets once covered the ground at the same spot as we hunted for leprechauns amongst the clover.

There also still sits a small opening in the patio where a great pecan tree once stood until one of our weather friends, Erin or Opal I forget which, decided it would look better out in the middle of the field behind the house.

In its place a small herb garden filled with oregano, mint and chives fill the air with scents that somehow seem out of place.

Time has downgraded the harbor to a single row. I can remember its limbs wet with dew and heavy with fruit and leaves tethered by a single root. I always thought of the arbor as a living creature, who each year offered her fruit as thanks to heaven above.

It made me realize families are like flowers.

Time has a way of embedding our roots deeper into the soil of our home. We must use the fertilizer of our knowledge to give our children the understanding of the world around us. With out the protectants of our morals and the understanding of the difference between right and wrong, the petals our youth will become battered and torn.

As we sit on my grandmother's patio and deliver the news to loved ones of a new addition to the garden is on the way, I was struck by the idea that in years to come my children will be able to see the touch of time on their lives as I had seen today. It makes me a little sad, but also a little awestruck at the revolving door our lives have become. It is a never ending circle of beginnings and no endings, because through each opening of the door, we begin another day and another life.

Stephanie Nelson is a former lifestyles editor of The Andalusia Star-News and writes a weekly column.