Heaven on Earth:
- Debra Flaming
- Oct 19
- 4 min read
Sunday, October 19th
The past three days have been a whirlwind of family, flowers, and laughter—an unforgettable stretch that reminded me what truly matters.
Friday: Racing the Freeze
All week, Dion and I had been pushing hard to stay ahead of the freezes threatening to overtake the last of the blooms. I was determined to finish photographing every variety before the cold claimed them. By Friday afternoon, I managed to capture my final “design photo” just as my camera battery gave out—literally on the very last dahlia. I couldn’t help but laugh at the timing. It felt like God saying, “That’s enough for today, Deb.”
When I returned from the field, I found Dion in the processing shed, cutting tubers despite his sore back from an overly ambitious jump off the tractor earlier in the week. I joined him to finish the batch we’d started with Steve and Cathy and helped carry the first containers into our new long-term storage building. It felt good—satisfying—to tuck those tubers safely away for their long winter rest.
With my camera packed up and Dion stretched out on the couch, I turned my attention indoors. A slow-roasted chicken filled the house with that unmistakable Nana-and-Papa aroma—the scent of love and home. Our oldest son, Cameron, and his family were on their way for the weekend, and somehow, despite the mud on my boots and the state of the house, I managed to pull everything together just in time.
When they arrived, the farm came alive again. We wandered through the animal pens and played on the old fort—now half-hidden by weeds taller than little Westyn. He thought it was pure adventure. We wrapped up the night with mashed potatoes, gravy, and laughter around the table. Then came the grand finale: a trip to the Boise airport to surprise Brittany, flying in from Portland.
Jett, ever the prankster, made a sign that read “Welcome Home from Jail, Brittany.” He held it up proudly for every passenger that came through until his aunt finally appeared. The look on her face when she realized the sign was for her—and Jett’s uncontainable glee—was pure comedy gold. We laughed all the way home.
Saturday: Breakfast Feasts and Bloom Picking
The next morning began with the smell of coffee brewing and bacon sizzling. Dion was still laid up, so Cameron and I took over the kitchen, whipping up a breakfast feast that could’ve fed a small army: eggs, sausage, blueberry pancakes, hash browns, fruit, and more coffee than should be legal.
As the rest of the family rolled in, the house filled with noise, chaos, and joy—the good kind that spills from room to room. Luke and Jessie arrived with baby Riley, our newest granddaughter, bundled in soft pink. She was the star of the morning. Luke, ever the protective new dad, made sure we all washed our hands before holding her. No one minded. One by one, we took turns cradling her tiny frame, completely smitten.
Later, we all headed out to the dahlia fields for one last round of bloom gathering before the frost arrived. My daughters and daughters-in-law chose flowers for the shadow boxes I’m making for Christmas, selecting their favorite hues from among the dried petals and the fresh ones still open in the fields. The grandsons joined in too, insisting on picking the biggest, showiest blooms they could find. Watching them—all generations together in the fields—made my heart swell.
“These are the moments,” I thought, “that stitch the generations together—one handful of dahlias, one shared laugh, one memory at a time.”
After naps (mercifully quiet ones), we packed up and headed to a nearby farm for pumpkin fun: hay slides, corn mazes, jumping pillows, and a whole lot of laughter. By evening, Ashley hosted us all for a taco bar feast while the kids ran wild in her backyard. When we finally fell into bed, it was that happy kind of exhaustion that comes from a day full of joy.
Sunday: A Legacy of Love
Sunday morning dawned calm and golden. The house stirred again with coffee, chatter, and the smell of French toast as Jett manned the griddle like a pro. I made eggs and bacon while the others packed up for their journeys home.
Before Brittany’s afternoon flight back to Portland, we all made one very special stop: Luke and Jessie introduced baby Riley to her great-grandparents for the first time. Watching my mom and dad hold her was like watching time fold in on itself—past, present, and future all wrapped into one precious moment. Four generations stood in the same room, the same hands that once held me now cradling my son’s child.
It struck me how love doesn’t just pass down—it multiplies. Every new life adds another layer to the family’s story, another verse to the song that started long before us.
After visiting great-grandma and grandpa, the girls and I shared a simple pizza lunch before taking Brittany to the airport. By the time I returned home, the house was quiet again—just the ticking clock, a few stray toys, and the echo of laughter still hanging in the air.
I sat for a while before starting the cleanup, letting the stillness settle in. My heart was full. Watching my grown children love their spouses, raise their kids, and cherish one another fills me with indescribable joy. This is what we’ve prayed for all along. This is legacy—alive and breathing and blooming right here at Flaming Acres.
“One generation commends your works to another; they tell of your mighty acts.” — Psalm 145:4
Family truly is the nearest thing to Heaven on earth.
Sincerely,
Debra Flaming (aka…Mom & Nana)
