Remembering

Another blog post pulled from the archives. At the end of this year my dad will have been gone 18 years. I'm not sure why this one never got finished, but it brought me a smile.

Because of the way posts were brought over from the old blog hosting site, I can't add to this one. So I'll post some photos of my dad at the top and remember him with love.

The original post:

Seven years ago, my dad passed away. I’ve recently been getting “The Seven-Year-Itch” around memories of Dad.

In the last week, two friends have sent me memories of Dad. One friend wrote to say she had come across the two sets of state quarters Dad and Mom sent them many years ago. Another friend wrote to say she had almost worn a hole through the knee of the lined flannel jeans that Mom had given her after Dad passed. Dad would have loved knowing that long, lean Saffi is wearing the pants around her farm.

Then, last weekend, the doorbell rang, and it was a young man selling magazines. This, too, brought back memories of my dad. The night the young couple showed up at our door selling books. We bought several books, including a medical guide I read voraciously. They stayed for dinner, and Mom and Dad corresponded with them for several years.

The young woman and her two dobermans that Dad picked up during a snow storm. They stayed overnight with us till the next morning when Dad could help her dig out of the snowbank she’d wedged herself into.

We used to joke that when we left a friend’s house, we’d wait until the third time Dad said, “Let’s head for Iowa.” (That was his catch-all phrase for time to leave.) If he had headed to the car when he said it the first time, we’d have been sitting in the car for at least 30 more minutes while he finished up conversations.

I was telling a friend recently how impressive it is to me that she continues to try and be open, respectful, and kind to her parent who isn’t necessarily deserving of much. My friend is trying to grow a better relationship