I have an image in my mind, a snapshot from long ago. I was, oh I don’t know, four? five? six? Was I in school already? I don’t know. What I remember is that it was a sunny afternoon. Pam and Bill were still at school or on their way home. Mother was somewhere else and I think I had a rare time alone with you. I was reading a book, a simple early reader, and I came upon these letters: g-o-i-n-g. I was stumped. I did not know that one. So I took the book and myself to you. We sat down close together. Was it on the couch or that fateful green bench on the back porch? I remember the warmth of that feeling, though and we looked at the page together. “Do you know this part?” you asked, covering up the “ing.”
“Yes, of course, that’s ‘go’,” I said.
“Well, these other letters make it ‘going’.”
And I was off. In my mind that was the one and only time I was stumped about reading.
Did my love affair with words start on that day? I will never really know but it pleases me to think so. The warmth and security of sitting there with you, sharing something that was important, somehow that all became wrapped up together with reading and writing. Years later, was it only last year?, your comments on the writings which I shared with you once again gave me pause. It was only after your reaction that I was able to acknowledge to myself that writing is what I must do for myself and to give myself permission to take time away from my family to write. For these two gifts from you I will always be grateful.
Happy Father’s Day. I love you.