A Gift That Lingers

"No tears for the writer, no tears for the reader." - Robert Frost

Over almost fifteen years and 2600 posts, I've tried to avoid cheap sentiment on this blog. At the same time, on days like today when I'm inclined to pay tribute to someone dear to me, it's hard to steer clear of emotionally charged memories. 

In every important respect, my father was my hero. Like everyone, he had his flaws; I inherited a few of his less noble traits. But the gifts he passed on - most significantly, his devotion to my mother and pride in all four of his children - far outweighed any of his shortcomings. 

Dad was a gifted carpenter. But from as early in life as I can remember, he continually told me he wanted me to use my "good brain" in whatever work I chose. That coaching may have contributed to my disinterest in working with my hands. It's equally possible my lack of aptitude for carpentry or any related field sent me in a different direction. Either way, I can't recall my dad ever acting disappointed in my choices, vocationally or otherwise. 

Instead, I remember his pride in me, including the pathetic shop projects I brought home from school. Even at ten or eleven years old, I knew how bad my work was; my shop teachers had given me some clear signals. Dad proudly displayed each of my disasters on our walls. On Veteran's Day, these sixty-five-year-old memories overtook me, a gift he gave me that lingers.