So...

Today, I’m enjoying this glorious weather on our patio and thinking about moments of memory. I have only a few real memories of my father. Actually three. There are photo memories. Hundreds. He was a photography nut, but actual memories where I can feel the moment. Three. My father died in 1972 when I was 14, so it’s been 50+ years. I’m sure there were other memories once, but today there are three. Memory one. I remember throwing a marble in the air while sitting on piano bench in our living room as my father lounged on the couch. I amazed myself by catching it in my mouth. That was really cool. Until I choked. Dad grabbed me by the ankles, turned me upside down and slapped the crap out of my back. Apparently Mr. Heimlich hadn’t published yet. Memory two. I remember my Dad passed out on the lawn after stumbling home overly from the Chop House after apparently being…over-served. Honestly…I’ve come too damn close to judge from this or any distance. We all have bad days. Hell, I’ve had bad years and, at this point, decades. But that’s the second memory. Memory three. 1971 when I was 13 years old and throwing a rubber ball endlessly against the garage door playing catch with myself. Dad came out because, well, I sucked at baseball so he must have wondered why the Hell was I suddenly playing catch? It was because my Dad’s Dad had died and I was processing it. My father evidently recognized this and wanted to talk. He explained about death being a part of life and how his Dad had lived a long life. It was comforting, meaningful and has honestly guided my thoughts on life and death since, but…yeah, it also got me stop banging the damn ball against the garage door. He died the next year. Safety. Fallibility. Comfort. Three moments of memory, which shaped a life. It’s a nice day to enjoy weather and memories.