I didn’t post on Father’s Day about how great my Dad was. Not because he wasn’t, but I didn’t call him Dad, I called him Father.
As in my father was the disciplinarian. “Just wait until you’re Father gets home,” Mom said when I was bad.
Or “Ask your Father” when I begged for something special.
So he was “Father” in my mind.
I was his favorite when I was little. How did I know? It was that magic children have about who loves them. I would run to him and he’d pick me up and spin me around until I was dizzy with laughter.
My Father read to my sister and I every evening from the classics. The joy of books is a wonderful part of my memories of my Father. I heard the classics, Tarzan, Tom Sawyer, A Christmas Carol. He also ingrained in me the need for education since he and my Mom never graduated from high school.
He wanted to be an author, so I guess his gift to me was the same goal. And here I am. My book, Ancient Blood is number five.
Thank you, my Father. You gave me such great gifts.