Sunday, June 20, 2004
Happy Father's Day
My Dad would be 81 if he were still alive. It has been 24 years since he left this earth and I still miss him. But he is still here with me. I see him in the bald eagle who lives in my neighborhood.
I see him in my son, his grandson, who never knew him. My son eats a piece of pie with his fingers like my Dad always did; my son loves to collect coins and look for junk with a metal detector like my Dad did; my son loves to camp and backpack and fish like my Dad did; and my son adores me like my Dad did.
My daughter, his only granddaughter, would have been adored by my Dad. He would have loved her singing and her piano playing. He would have loved to see her perform. He would think she was the most beautiful teen age girl on earth and he would have told her that. He would laugh that she is so much like me.
I thank my Dad for teaching me so many things. Specifically, I remember sitting next to him while he fished on the Missouri River at Beaver Creek where his ashes now lay. He liked to put little white marshmallows on his hook with worms for bait. His thumbs would be sticky from the marshmallow. As he held his pole with his thumbs on the reel, a bumblebee quietly landed on his hand. "Daaad!" But he quelled my reaction and responded that the bee only wanted to share the marshmallow. We calmly watched while the bumblebee snacked off of his thumbs and silently flew away.
I remember this every time I garden in my bumblebee-filled pink azaleas and pink rhodies--especially when I wear a pink shirt. In fact, one time a bumblebee managed to get underneath my shirt and I tried to remain calm remembering my Dad's words that stinging is the last thing he would want to do because his life would end. My children, little at the time, became hysterical and ran into the house and hid under their beds. The bee never did sting me. Unfortunately, I have been unable to pass the absence of bee-fear on to his grandchildren.
But I have done my best to keep his memory alive for them. It is the least I can do.
My Dad would be 81 if he were still alive. It has been 24 years since he left this earth and I still miss him. But he is still here with me. I see him in the bald eagle who lives in my neighborhood.
I see him in my son, his grandson, who never knew him. My son eats a piece of pie with his fingers like my Dad always did; my son loves to collect coins and look for junk with a metal detector like my Dad did; my son loves to camp and backpack and fish like my Dad did; and my son adores me like my Dad did.
My daughter, his only granddaughter, would have been adored by my Dad. He would have loved her singing and her piano playing. He would have loved to see her perform. He would think she was the most beautiful teen age girl on earth and he would have told her that. He would laugh that she is so much like me.
I thank my Dad for teaching me so many things. Specifically, I remember sitting next to him while he fished on the Missouri River at Beaver Creek where his ashes now lay. He liked to put little white marshmallows on his hook with worms for bait. His thumbs would be sticky from the marshmallow. As he held his pole with his thumbs on the reel, a bumblebee quietly landed on his hand. "Daaad!" But he quelled my reaction and responded that the bee only wanted to share the marshmallow. We calmly watched while the bumblebee snacked off of his thumbs and silently flew away.
I remember this every time I garden in my bumblebee-filled pink azaleas and pink rhodies--especially when I wear a pink shirt. In fact, one time a bumblebee managed to get underneath my shirt and I tried to remain calm remembering my Dad's words that stinging is the last thing he would want to do because his life would end. My children, little at the time, became hysterical and ran into the house and hid under their beds. The bee never did sting me. Unfortunately, I have been unable to pass the absence of bee-fear on to his grandchildren.
But I have done my best to keep his memory alive for them. It is the least I can do.
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