I meant to post a blurb about my Dad on father’s Day, but between Peter’s making breakfast all by himself and the rather trying day we had (ask my husband’s brother the reason for that—in fact, I’ll give you his cell phone number but only if you promise to call him in the middle of the night—repeatedly!) it went clean out of my mind. Sorry Dad! Of course, I am pretty sure neither my father or my brother in law read my blog so it doesn’t really matter.

I do want to honor my father, though, even if it is a day late. He is the fella swinging the bat in the picture above. He loaded many old family pictures on my computer which he has been painstakingly scanning over the years. This particular one showed up in the file three times so I figured he wanted to be sure, doubly sure, triply sure, that it was saved forever. It’s a bit fuzzy and it doesn’t look like he actually even hit the ball since it is flying up above and behind him so I am going to guess that it represents a favorite memory of his as opposed to a favorite image. As I was going through the pictures on my computer today, one of them stood out to me. It is too small to post so a description will have to suffice. There’s my dad, age somewhere between 25-30, standing by a white clapboard house next to a window with a beautiful over-flowing window box. One can tell from his stance and expression that he is proud of and delighted with that window box full of colorful, healthy flowers. One can tell from all these things that he planted and cared for those flowers and that growing flowers was a passion of his. I recognized myself in that picture and there is very little that could have pleased me more.

Growing plants is a whole lot like growing kids—only faster. In a way, they are much more satisfactory than children who talk back and take so long to “turn out”, but only for the short term. Growing children is by far the most satisfactory thing that I have ever done (even tho I am far from seeing how they will turn out) and I am guessing my father feels the same way. He and my mother raised eight children to be productive, law abiding, talented, (did I mention good-looking) and highly moral people who all adhere to the tenets of belief they instilled in us. Much of what my father did to make this happen was to teach us, through his words, his lessons and his example. I will always and forever be grateful for all the things my father taught me. I love you, Dad!