That Foolish Young Man

I opened the car door, fighting the tears but not the memories: my 3-yr-old daughter’s delight as I squeezed into her tiny plastic pool for a swim; the ride on that miniature Smurf train, over and over; and the pride of her cheerleading plus the wonder of watching her become a teenager: 

       "The stuffed animals are for decoration, Dad!"

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And my son: teaching him to go underwater by "accidentally" dropping my keys in the deep end of the pool—followed by my pocket change; that glorious day hiking at Pinnacles National; and those treasured chess games I always lost—and no, not on purpose.

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As I finally start the car, I can almost smile at the unfair wrestling matches, two against one, and a father that went down, but not too easily. 

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Next week, my eyes will be tearing again because, you see, there was a divorce.  

 

And that is just one of my many regrets.  If I could only write to that young, foolish know-it-all, pass on some simple insights...

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So I did. 

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HE, of course, wouldn’t be interested in anything that even looked like advice, so it is a good thing I am a storyteller, a literary entertainer of sorts. 

 

Even he would enjoy some of these posts:  

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I hope you will too.

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