The Wednesday Pop - vol. 8 . . . it's about a bench

It's good to be back with The Wednesday Pop!

I want to tell you about a bench . . . not just any bench, but a bench that sits outside of a house in Atlanta.  It's at a bus stop, actually.  It's a bus stop bench, and it gets used over and over again each day.

The folks who sit on that bench, as they wait for the bus before their long days or after them, have no idea why the bench is there.  They just know that it provides a respite in a sometimes cold world and that it is there for the sitting.

I love the story of the bench.  It tells a grand story of why my Dad is so special.

Before I tell you all about the bench, you must know that I am blessed with an amazing father-in-law, too.  No one is more fortunate than me in the in law department.   My father-in-law, Grandaddy, is (among many other things) a very talented woodworker.  Some time I'll tell you about the fun we have in his barn and about some of the magic he has created with wood.  He's not just genius at wood-working, but he's also generous.  Fine crafted wood pieces, made by him, are all over the place; gifts of him to many family members and friends and friends of friends.  He has made many folks happy with his sweet gifts.

My family is no exception.  They have many times been the recipients of Grandaddy's wooden treasures, and his handiwork graces their porches and backyards.

A few years ago, my Dad (Pop) made a request.  He isn't quick to ask for things, so I took notice.  He asked Grandaddy if he would build a bench that he could put in front of his house at the bus stop.  Of course, Grandaddy obliged and the dark brown bench was constructed.  My interest was piqued.

Dad got the bench and made plans to secure it with cement on the other side of the sidewalk in front of his house.  (I must admit that one of the parts of this story I like best is that he didn't ask if it was okay - so uncharacteristic of him!)  He marched to the street side, armed with his new bench and a bag of Quickcrete and set about attaching the sidewalk and the bench to each other for eternity.  Done.

A zillion souls pass that bench every day, and I imagine that they never wonder about the bench.  Many people sit on the bench each day.  They might be walking along and perch there for a short rest or they might be anxiously waiting for a ride to the next part of their day.  Either way, the bench is part of their day.  The bench is there to help.  The bench is always there, always waiting quietly to hold them up when the way gets hard.

When I see the bench, I marvel at what a perfect symbol it is of my Dad.  It illustrates how he works.  He saw a need.  He figured out a way he could help.  He made it work.  He made sure that the help would be there, always, whenever someone (anyone) needed it.  He quietly went about making a difference without anyone knowing it was done.  That's how he works.

The bench is there, as I write this.  I wonder who sits upon it now.  I wonder what their day is like or what they are worried about or if they have smiled much today.  I don't know any of that.

I do know that the gift of that bench is constant and that it represents the love of two quiet men, who silently go about making their world a better place.

The Wednesday Pop - vol. 7 . . . It's Hammock Time

My Dad is a smart man.  I've told you that before.  He has a lot of things figured out, and it may surprise you that he is also the world's great rester.  Yes, rester.  He has an unbelievable talent with rest.

He is able to take a short nap in almost any place you could imagine!  He naps on the couch in his office.  He can nap on the ground during a picnic.  He once found a room away from the action and napped while we spent the day at my kids' school!  He's a champion rester!

He slips away from a family gathering, finds a bed, has a rest and gets involved in the conversation again, faster than you would believe.  While the rest of the folks sit around complaining about all that needs to be done or yawning lazily as the conversation lags, he takes a nap!  Oddly enough, when he arises, he's whistling a happy tune and running circles around the rest of us!

I love a good hammock - I assume everyone does - but no one has the relationship with the hammock that my father does.  He is one with any hammock he has ever met!  So, here is where I relate my unbelievable trip to Nicaragua to my Dad's love for resting . . .

In Nicaragua, there are hammocks everywhere!  Unlike our backyard hammocks, swaying alone in the breeze, these hammocks are used and used all of the time!

Are the folks in Nicaragua lazy?  Are they trying to dream away their work?  Do they not have enough to do?

Nope, that's not it.  They have plenty to do, just like my Dad.  Funny thing, though . . . they've figured out that more gets done when one is rested.  They've also figured out that a body and a mind needs rest and that sometimes just dreamily watching the waves or praying or meditating right in the middle of a day is a very good thing.

Once on my trip, I found myself in a hammock.  (Well, actually more than once I found myself in a hammock, but that's not the point here.)  I was talking with another friend on the trip, and we were discussing how odd it was to 'just rest' right in the middle of the day.  I began to think about Pop, my Dad, and something very important dawned on me . . . 

He might rest more than anyone I know, but he also gets more done than anyone I know.  What's up with that?  Apparently, my Dad and some friends in a far away land have discovered something that the rest of us busy people don't yet understand.  

It makes sense to rest in the middle of the day when a body and a mind get tired or when the sun beats down so heavily that simple movements are difficult.

Folks who rest more, do more.  It's that easy.  So, why don't I act on that?  Why don't you?  Why do we feel like we have to act busy all of the time?  Who's watching?  Why do we care?

Seems to me, I just visited with folks who understand far more than most of us.  They have cool, colorful hammocks at their houses, and they use them.

Sometimes they take to a hammock when they are tired from the morning's work.  Sometimes they get in side by side hammocks and have lazy visits, talking about whatever arises.  And sometimes, they just take a few minutes or a few hours and get away from their real world to spend a while with God or with themselves.  Sometimes they just rest.

I'm more than impressed by this talent.  I want to put into action what my Dad and my friends in Nicargaua already know.  

Resting is a good thing.  

A very good thing.  

I think we should start a trend.  What do you think?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 6 . . . a thank you I wouldn't have thought I'd send!

So, I've been devoting Wednesdays to my Dad, the cool Don Murphy.  I decided it was a good idea, as I have lots to tell and learn from him about parenting.

He might be surprised by this one.  You might be, too.  Today, I have a specific thank you.

Back in the long ago late seventies and early eighties, people didn't give a lot of thought to seat belts.  Some cars didn't even have them - weird, huh?  Well, I think most cars did, but they were stuffed way down under the seat and nobody could ever find them.  And the belts didn't come from behind, over your shoulder.  They came from the depths and ickiness of the between the seat area.  Once you located the belt for your seat, it was most definitely either sized for Flat Stanley or the fat lady at the circus. They didn't work with the spring back system of today - once you found one, it might prove to be ten feet of royal blue silky belt.  It was a real pain.  Anybody remember that?

Oh, what we went through, back in the day.

But, that's not really what this post is about.  That's not the thank you.  My appreciation goes to my Dad for being a bit on the 'weird' side and forcing us to wear seat belts way before everybody else did.  It was a pain; it really was.  Though we knew he forced the issue because he loved us so very much, we were often frustrated by that extra ten seconds of effort needed to be safe.  Dad stayed the course.  I'm thankful.  He had us put on the seat belts, no matter what car we were in.  He had our friends put on seat belts when they rode with us.

The part that amazes me now - now that I'm a parent - is how hard that must have been.  I can see now that listening to us whine about the pesky seat belts must have been a pain.  It would have been so much easier to do what most everyone else was doing and just forget about the safety issue that was becoming clearer and clearer.  It would have been easier - much easier.

But that's not my Dad.  That's not how he does it, and I'm thankful.  Writing this has all sorts of things running through my brain about parenting today.  I'm wondering about the things I need to be brave about;  the yays and nays I need to concentrate on, even when it's really, really hard.

I have a great example, and I can remember it every time I put on my seat belt.  Each time I reach over and do what I have to do, I can draw on the strength I learned from my Dad and hope for the courage to be so bold myself.

Thanks, Dad.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 5 . . . you've got to laugh

Most of you know that I'm devoting Wednesdays this year to telling stories about my Dad.  I came to the conclusion that this was a good idea when I started realizing how very much I had to say about him.  Hope you're enjoying The Wednesday Pop.  I guess I shouldn't claim to have the best Dad ever, but . . . well, I do.

I'm enjoying this regular place to recollect and give him some overdue thanks and think about ways that my parenting (and maybe yours) could be enriched by looking at how my Dad parents.  Needless to say, I've been thinking back a bunch lately, remembering old times and recalling facts from days gone by.  I keep being reminding that my Dad has always been quick to laugh, and I'm thankful for that.  He isn't a silly guy when it's time to be serious, but he has always taught us how to laugh.  Dad doesn't teach in lectures, but he shows his lessons over time by the way he lives.  As time goes by, I grow more and more thankful for every occasion to laugh - don't you?

Finding the joy in moments is such a gift, and I realize now that Dad has been showing us how to do that for years.  We did a lot of laughing as kids, and we do a lot of it now.  There were certainly plenty of serious times when laughing wasn't appropriate, but I'm thinking back about the many ways that Dad creates opportunities to laugh, both at life and at ourselves.  I'm thankful.

So, today I give you these tips on parenting from the 'how my Dad does it' playbook:

• Laugh at yourself whenever you can.  It's good for kids to see that parents goof up and it's awesome when they see us being okay with it.
• Make up a ridiculous language with nothing at all decipherable and speak it with your children often.  The crazier, the better, so go for it.  If you can also do strange things with your eyebrows, it's even better.  As you speak this malarky, your child learns about the magic of imagination and sees, too, that having fun with him or her is always more fun than just about everything else!
• Make up silly stories and crazy words and far-fetched tall tales.  It's fun,  makes everyone giggle and creates learning and trust out of fun moments.
• Take winning and losing with lightness and ease.  Laughing about doing absolutely horrible in a card game is an invaluable lesson for your child.
• Be willing to hear, revel in and laugh at your children's stories again and again and again.  It tells them over and over how very important they are and teaches them about speaking their mind and getting their point across.  
• Call your children by the silliest names, even if it's only the two of you that get it.  Having a pet name says I love you and I love laughing with you.

I'm thankful for laughing in this crazy, mixed-up world, and I'm thankful for a Dad who is still laughing with me!

The Wednesday Pop - Vol.4 . . . Leaving on a Jet Plane

I've been thinking a lot lately about traveling.

Travelers are headed here to us, and I'm soon to leave on a trip myself.  All of that has got me thinking about the yearning so many of us have, way deep inside, to find out a bit about how the other guy lives.  Our dear Irish family, the Quinlivans, are en route here, as I write this post.  (You can read more about them in The First Day of a Trip that Started in 1985 .)  I'm eternally grateful for that yearning I have, and I owe a good deal of it to my family.

I have travelers in my blood on both sides, and I've always reveled in the tales of far away places (or even the stories of places close by).  I've always appreciated the call to see new horizons, to hear other voices and to get a glimpse at how another life-liver lives his life.  Both of my grandmothers modeled this - they both traveled whenever they could, and I can recall that long ago I decided that retirement (if it meant I got to go all of those places) sounded mighty good!  In my mind I carry separate pictures of  each grandmother boarding buses and planes and trains and giggling all the way with fellow travelers.  I like those pictures.

My mother was a seeker, too, and spent her final days living out her questions in her beloved England.  (If you are new to the blog, you can read about her here:  A Few More Things about Mary George .)

I've always thought my maternal grandfather, Papa, was one of the smartest men I've ever known, but we differed greatly on our ideas about travel.  He believed he could find out what he needed to know in books, and I debated that one had to see it, feel it, live it.  We finally agreed to disagree (but I always sort of felt that he understood my point more than he let on.)

And so, it seems, I came by this travel bug honestly.  I'm thankful for that.  I thank my Dad, though, for so many of the ways that he showed me how important it was to know how another lived.  He showed me countless times that it was vital to search for answers, meet the other person, and see with new eyes.  I've always been thankful for his passing that down; but, as a parent, I've begun to see something more that I appreciate.

Buying plane tickets, signing up for a trip, and packing bags for one's own trip is awesome - it's exciting, it's full of great moments of anticipation and it's relatively easy.  I've come to see that what's much harder is watching, even encouraging, another to take bold steps.  That is HARD . . . especially when the other is your child!

So today, I look back with thanks and admiration on the many times and various ways that Pop encouraged, empowered, financially backed, pushed and allowed me to take the trips I needed to take, both large and small.  I thank him for having the wisdom to show me how big the world is, both in the excitement of big travels and the small amazements of hiking through the gardens down the street.  He opened my eyes, continuously, and he models still a life of learning.  All of that is amazing.

I'm more amazed now, though, in the strength that it must have taken to allow some of the trips, near and far, that I needed to take.  How hard it must have been to hold back words of worry and offer a voice of encouragement.  I realize now that it's sometimes scary enough to let your child go to the bathroom alone, much less board a plane to another country!  I fear the thought of watching my own children back out of the driveway, and I shudder to imagine how it must have felt as Jodi and I traveled through the teenage years.

The point is . . . he was bigger than his fear.  I appreciate that, and I hope I can live to emulate it.  I hope I'll remember the gifts on the way for my children when I see them drive off, giggling on the way to a football game across town or embarking on a trip that looks downright useless to me.  I hope I'll remember the many ways that Dad has seen me off, with confidence and good wishes and excitement.  It's a tall order!

So, thanks, Dad, for these traveling moments (just to name a few):

• when you loaned me your Easter Egg blue Volvo to drive to Florida with a car full of giggling girls.
• when you dropped me off in the middle of the Pocono Mountains to be a counselor at a Jewish Summer Camp, when neither one of us was even sure we could understand the accents!
• when you walked from one end of Manhattan to the other, allowing me questions and observations and dawdling, as we looked at things you had seen tons of times.
• when you planned countless weekend trips to see little pieces of other places, other ways of doing things and bountiful nature.
• when you somehow mustered a confident smile to see me off to Bonaire, by myself, to learn to SCUBA after the hardest year of my life.
• when you watched in what must have been complete shock as I explained to you why it made perfect sense for adult me to go to Africa for six weeks by myself, in what was the trip of a lifetime.  
• when you walked beside me through new places, in our own town or new ones, and explored with me.

I see now a speck of how hard it must be to watch your child go into unchartered waters, to excel or fail, to explore and learn.  I see now what I put you through!  Thank you, thank you, thank you, though, that you allowed me the chances and gave me the practice.  

Lord, please help me do the same for my children.  Help me to love them enough to give them wings - and not just allow them to fly, but encourage them, even in my fear.  Here's hoping I can muster the strength you have shown and show now.  Help me to instill in them the desire to see how others live, to imagine how others may see things and to wonder.  

Thank you, Dad, for the sense of wonder.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 3 . . . these things I KNOW.

I'm not sure of much.  The events of last Friday, bunched up with all of the other confusing events in this complicated world, have left me sad and confused and wondering about what I KNOW.  I've wanted to be able to give my children some sense of calm, as we discuss the good things we know about God, this world and the people inhabiting it.  I've been grasping at the people and thoughts and things that I know are good.  I've found myself whispering prayers that I know, have known for a long time, and wanting to laugh and visit with the ones who create a sense of comfort in me.  

As sad as things feel right now, I'm noticing that working to remember what's good, decent, interesting, meaningful and loving brings us some much needed comfort.  Dad has always been one who does that for me, so today's essay jumped in front of me.  As I began to put these words in place, it seemed almost obvious that what I need (what I'd like to write about) is what I know.  And I may not know much about many things, but I know A LOT about this guy named Pop.

So here, my friends, are some things I KNOW.  Just thinking about them is making me smile, and smiling is bringing me some comfort.


I KNOW that as long as I live on this earth, I will not have a warm sweater or jacket in a cold restaurant if my father is with me.  I've come to terms with this.  I know it to be true.  He spent the first half of my life, urging me to 'bring along a jacket in case it gets cold' and for reasons I can't explain, I know that he will continue to catch me without said warmth.

I KNOW that there is such a thing as a happy medium (and I KNOW that I don't find it often).  I know because of Pop.   My Dad has a hold on moderation unlike anyone I've ever known.  He get's it!  I'm amazed by his understanding of the happy medium, keeping things in perspective and moderation!  I want his ability to find this perch between too much and not enough.  For my 48 years, though, I've just watched in amazement.  

He can take a nap that is just the right length.  It makes him feel better!  He doesn't stay asleep for four hours, waking up in misery, or rest nervously, only to get agitated.  He can eat a sinful dessert, just enjoying enough to get the taste and not so much he feels like he needs to be rolled away with the rest of us.  He can read a great book, but put it down when it's time to get some sleep.  What's that like?  I can't imagine, but I KNOW it's possible, as I've watched it in action all of my life.  

I KNOW that at any point, in any place, during any event, with any circumstances, my father would find me and meet me where I am.  I've always known it.  Pretty wonderful, huh?  I write this as a serious point, and I'm a different person for knowing this down in my soul, but we have laughed many times about the ways that Dad can find us in any situation.

There are 92,746 seats in Sanford Stadium in Athens, Georgia.  It's a big place.  Please believe me when I tell you that once, at a UGA game, my father sat on one side of that giant arena and found me on the other side, in the middle of 92 other thousands of people!  He had no idea where I was, but was sure I was at the game, and he found me!  He's like that.  He is like a mother bear in that way.  He know's where his kids are, physically and emotionally, and he gets there when we need him.



I KNOW that truly listening and hearing people is a gift.  I've been heard, and I know this is true.  My Dad hears the people around him.  He listens and he hears us.  I can think of no greater gift, and I will forever try to be the listener he is.  Most of us are busy.  Life is complicated.  We hear too much chatter; too much distraction.  It's hard to really listen and difficult to really hear the ones we love.  It's hard to know people.

My Dad knows people, and all of my life, I have watched the gift that his listening has brought to the people in his life.  He is who I watch to learn how to listen . . . how to hear . . . and how to really know folks.  I'm working on it, and probably will be for a long time to come, but I've got the best teacher ever.  Listening is a gift and I know that my Dad gives it freely wherever he goes.  This I know.

The world is crazy.  Things are hard to understand.  I don't know a lot.

These are some things I know, though, to be sure.  It makes me feel better to think about them.

What do you know?

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 2 We'll start at the Fox . . .

Don't think I haven't driven my brain crazy trying to decide where to start with The Wednesday Pop.  I have.  There is much to tell, as I told you last week in The Wednesday Pop - Vol. 1 .  Where to begin, I pondered a million times since last week.  A couple of nights ago, though, I found my answer on the tv, of all places.  

We found a show on PBS devoted to the the Fox Theatre in Atlanta.  It was wonderful; part history, part legends, part documentary.  I enjoyed it, and it served as a trip down memory lane through so many awesome adventures in my childhood.  About twenty minutes into the show, I realized I would start my Pop stories at the Fox.  It makes good sense.  

I'll explain.  My Dad (often known as Pop, his grandfather name) is grand with grand celebrations.  (I realize I just used the same word twice - it was intentional.)  He can magically turn the ordinary into the extraordinary, the mundane into something special, the occasion into an event.  And so many times, he did that while he introduced my sister and I to a great, big, interesting world - often at a performance.  Many times, as you might imagine, the Fox came into play.  If you don't live in the Atlanta area, please click on the link above and investigate this fine theatre.  If you live near here, and you've never been there - you must remedy that immediately.  That is your homework.  Period.

As a child, I had no idea that every kid I knew didn't make frequent trips to the Fox.  I assumed that everyone went to see Rudolph Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov, whether or not they were into ballet.  I thought all kids saw The Royal Ballet of Everyplace, and for a while, I took it for granted.  When the Fox was in danger of being demolished, I figured all children were kept abreast of all that was happening and that most other kids had their own "Save the Fox" t-shirt, like I did.  

Didn't most families go to see Chinese Acrobats and the Atlanta Symphony?  Surely other kids knew the story about the Russian ballet couple who had been held captive in one room when they tried to defect, but practiced their ballet in the small space they had.  Surely others, like me, got to see them at the Fox, on their first tour in America.  Surely other parents told their children about this couple's story, shared the tales of their determination and cried alongside their daughters when the couple took to the stage.  Surely, they did.

I assumed most folks saw the first running of A Chorus Line and Phantom of the Opera.  I figured that most folks took their kids to see Gospel singers bring down the house on a regular basis.  (As a side note . . . if you are a singer who is female, a bit past middle-age, African American and a tad on the puffy side, my father will find you and hear you sing.)  I just knew that other kids heard boys' choirs from everywhere, rarely missed the Alvin Ailey Dancers and sometimes sat through plays and performances whose names they could barely pronounce.  I thought that was the way everybody did it.  

Eventually, I got a clearer picture.  I noticed that other kids my age didn't talk about their experiences at the Fox, or any one of Atlanta's other performance venues.  I began to see that my parents were different, that we did things that lots of other folks weren't doing.  And though I'll never know all that went into planning these events and pulling them off without the finances to provide for such, I did start to see that my Dad was different.  My eyes opened up a bit more, and I realized that he was consistently affording Jodi and me chances to see tiny glimpses of all that awaited us on this interesting place called Earth.  

When we were learning about Martin Luther King, Jr. at school, our family went to his church for a service and saw his home and roamed around his neighborhood.  When we reveled in the successes of the U.S. figure skaters, we were there at the Omni to see them in person.  When Jodi started taking gymnastics, we started seeing the famous gymnasts live.  I took note . . . my parents weren't steering us in the direction of their own lives, exactly, they were providing for us a summary of the many things the world has to offer.  We heard authors, listened to choirs, saw circuses, went to concerts, ballets, folk performances, plays and comedies.  We went to football games and swim meets and saw the visiting tours of anyone and anything that came through Athens, Ga.

I don't list these things to brag.  I list them now, as a thankful daughter and a learning parent.  I marvel at the experiences that my folks gave me on a limited budget and on the many ways that they put aside their particular interests to introduce us to the gifts of the world.  It's amazing to me, still.

In March, I wrote about the many ways that my mother touched this world, but I write this to begin to tell you the myriad ways that my Dad is changing this place.

Luckily, I wasn't grown when I began to notice all that he did to stretch our minds, our experiences or views of the world.   Thankfully, I realized at least some of what he did while I was still young and under his full time tutelage.  I remember when I first wondered about 'where Dad came from.'  How did a man who grew up poor in Griffin and Forest Park, Georgia learn about all of this?  How did he know that all of these things went on in the world, when the adventures weren't part of his daily life?  

He grew up with two amazing and loving parents, who adored their three sons.  They were poor; and though they brought themselves out of poverty and achieved so much, the majority of my Dad's childhood was filled with hardships.  It was filled with love, too.  And humor, and appreciation and church and singing and laughing and family.  I guess it was filled with enough of all of that good stuff, that he was instilled with a deep appreciation for the individual.  He learned about the many parts that make up a whole person.  I guess he came to know, maybe earlier than most, how important it was to know folks' stories.  I am thankful that he continues to pass that down.

I remember once trying to come up with a way to ask Dad how he came to know about the great, big, wide, interesting world.  I was frustrated, thinking I might not have the words to explain exactly what I was asking.  He got it, though, and he told me straight out.  I hope I remember his words correctly.  . .

He said everything opened up for him on a school field trip.  He said he remembers being brought on a bus from Forest Park to Atlanta to Symphony Hall with his classmates.  He remembers looking around.  He remembers noticing the building's architecture, the careful ways the space was created to carry sound and he remembers seeing the people of all sorts who were there to hear the musicians.  He recalls marveling at the talent of all of the orchestra members and the conductor and the people in the audience who seemed to understand it all.  He explained that he made a choice, right there - he decided that he would know that world, those things.  He decided that he would learn what they knew and visit that building again.  He would check out this big, wide world.

And he is doing just that, and taking the rest of us along on the journey.  Thanks be to God, that he is my Dad, that he dreamt up all that he did and that he introduced me to all that I saw.  I KNOW NOW that what I had wasn't the norm.  I know now that I was part of something extraordinary.  Today, I marvel at how he pulled it off.  I wonder how he made it happen, where he got the energy, came up with the money, had the tenacity to keep it going.  How could one person introduce that many different things to two little kids from Georgia?

I just hope I remember to take advantage of the 'Save the Fox' t-shirt moments with my own kids.  I hope I remember to stay awake enough to see all that happens in this bright, beautiful world and share it with them.

I am learning from the master, maestro, conductor, tour guide, choreographer, artistic director, coach, and mentor that is my Dad.   I am learning from the best.

The Wednesday Pop - Vol. I

Seventy four years ago today the world changed.  It really did.  You may not know the significance, so I'll explain.  When I first explain, you may think I'm exaggerating, but I plan to spend the next year explaining how the world changed for the better for all of us.

On this day in December in 1938, a little baby was born at home to the beautiful young Lorena Butler Murphy.  He was named Donald Clarence Murphy.  He would do great things, but they didn't know that then.  They just knew he was a blessing and he was precious and he was healthy.

Last spring when I wrote about my amazing mother, I made a promise (mostly to myself) that I would write about my father and I would do it while he was here to read it.  I intend to make good on that promise.

I've been thinking for a while about how I'd like to tell you about little Donnie who grew up to be Donald C. Murphy, Ph.D.  I've been wondering about the best format, the clearest way to tell you about him.  I think I've got my plan.

I have a lot to say, to write and to remember about this man.  It's hard to sum him up without some time.  I intend to give it just that.  I've decided that I'll spread out my memories and stories about him over this next year, on the blog, in a segment called The Wednesday Pop - Wednesdays because that's the day and Pop because it's his grandfather name and because it sounds really cool.

Prepare to be moved.  Prepare to learn and to listen and to join me as I recount just some of why I am so fortunate.  I cannot imagine how the stars aligned and Jodi and I got picked to be Dad's daughters, but I thank God every single day.  It has been a journey that continues now.  The rest of you seem to be making it, but I'm not sure how you're doing without a Dad like mine.

I have many things to tell you, so it will  take some time.  I'll tell you things he taught me about people, God, the world and feelings.  I'll tell you about my memories of growing up with a Dad like Dad.  I'll tell you about quiet times and times full of laughter.  I'll tell you touching things that you won't believe. As a parent, sometimes I look back on my father during my childhood and use it as a guidebook and other times I look back and just feel amazed.  My childhood wasn't perfect.  I won't say that.  No one's is, and that would be a dishonest waste of time.  My childhood was real and wonderful and hard and exciting and frustrating and scary and loving, just like most.  But I went through it with someone I want you to know better and I can't wait to tell the stories.

I hope you'll enjoy them with me.  I hope you'll think back on your own memories, remember the dear ones who make your journey worthwhile.  I'll love this romp through the past and this closer look at the present.  I hope you will, too.

I love you, Dad.