My daddy was a hard worker at the Ford plant and a very busy man at home. But he loved his children, and he loved to take us with him wherever he went, whenever he had the chance.
When I was a little boy, I loved those trips to the hardware store (the paint-mixing machine always fascinated me); to Cheap John’s, where they had the world’s biggest pair of blue jeans on display; and, of course, to my father’s favorite fishing holes, and to the Ford workers’ softball games, and even ordinary errands that often saw us wind up with ice cream cones in our hands. I felt about 10 feet tall, the day my father’s friends let me play the outfield in one of their games.
It would have been nice to skip adolescence; but public education, over the years, taught me that the most important people in the world were my age-group peers and my “friends” (How many of them were false friends! And how long it took me to see it!), and that family was boring and stifling and not cool, not cool at all. And that was before public schools started teaching there wasn’t even any such thing as a family–or that “alternative families” are really where it’s at.
My father died some years ago. Which means my father lives: for the Lord has said so. And I hope he knows I love him.