I found this picture when going through a box of old photos. It’s a shot of my dad standing outside the old farmhouse. Both the house and the man are gone now but I’m wishing I could ask him a hundred questions about this precious portrait.
How old were you in this picture? You played baseball? What team were you on? What position did you play? Were you any good? Who took this picture? Did you wonder if you’d have grandsons that would play baseball? No, I don’t suppose you were thinking about grandchildren yet. Were you happy to pose for this picture, or were you anxious to get to the ball field? Did grandpa and grandma go and watch you play? Did you ever hit a home run? Did your team win that day? Did you play any other sports? Why don’t I know?
This is the first year I haven’t bought a Father’s Day card. As I walked past the cards today, I couldn’t help but hope I had picked out good and meaningful cards all those years. I know I got it right once. The best Father’s Day card I remember giving my dad was when I was about seven or eight. We were on vacation and dad had cut his finger. My elaborate home-made card to him stated that I would squeeze the lemon into his iced tea each day, so the juice wouldn’t sting his finger. He probably got tired of drinking iced tea, but he kept ordering it just so I could make good on my pledge. That’s what I do know.