My father was born in 1932 and was reared by his maternal Choctaw grandparents in a town called Greenville, Texas.  Daddy grew up neither wolf nor dog, having a foot in both the white and non-white world.  His dark blue eyes allowed him to pass for anglo despite his dark red skin.  I always found it incredible that my father lived just about an hour north of Dallas and yet it was so rural he attended a one room school house.  He spoke of gathering wood for the stove which heated it, and of outhouses located close to both the school and church.  By stark contrast, my mother, born just two years later in Oak Cliff, (now a part of the city of Dallas) grew up with electricity, plumbing, and gas heating … all of which we now take for granted.  When I was a kid I remember my folks taking me to what used to be called Old City Park.  I have proud, fond memories of my father being the only one who actually knew what all the various outmoded materials were as well as the functions they served.  Growing up he had actually used much of the farming equipment and even knew how to churn butter.  A friend whose boy is in the same class as my girl asked if we might be interested in going together for a Christmas event at the place my daddy so loved, now called Dallas Heritage Village.  It is nestled quietly in a shaded, almost hidden part southeast of downtown Dallas’ looming skyscrapers.  Home to Dallas’ first city park in 1876, it also housed the city’s first zoo, and concerts were given in the bandstand just as they were on this fine evening.  Donkeys and sheep and chickens all mixed with old English carolers, mariachis (my favorite) and old-timey storytellers.  We all had fun going around the park, and I found myself attempting to show my little one the same things my father had once shown me.  For instance the way a water pump functioned, how metal is forged, and what a hitching post was.  I tried to impress upon her that millions of people in other parts of the world still live by burning wood and gathering water every single day, and I am glad it gave her pause.  Potable water should never, EVER be taken for granted.  Safe running water is an even greater privilege with which we are blessed, yet rarely give it any thought.  Stewart Udall, the American Secretary of the Interior during most of the sixties, is quoted as having said, “Plans to protect air and water, wilderness and wildlife are in fact plans to protect man.”  I became inwardly embarrassed by my own disconnect with life’s basic necessities and the lessons my father taught me.  I do not want that for my daughter.  Rudimentary survival skills like growing vegetables have become something with which many are unfamiliar.  As we were there stepping back in time I wished so very much my folks were still living.  They instilled a love of knowledge in me and could have taught their granddaughter so much.  The annual celebration was entitled Candelight:  history, tradition, reflection.  As the sun was setting, real candles inside glass votives were being lit.  They hung daintily from metal hangers protruding several feet above the ground, and lining the park’s inner perimeter.  I told my little one what a luxury candles were for so long and about a profession which I realized no longer even exists — lamplighting.  I was so grateful my friend thought to include us, and I could not believe my husband and I had not been back since having our daughter.  Vowing to make it a regular tradition, I want my child to know how to carry her own water … and to light the way for others.