Hi Dad. I think about you every day, but it’s been quite some time since I last wrote. I’ve never been much of a fan of greeting cards—Hallmark would go broke if they depended on me.
Anyway, since today is July 7th, and your 88th birthday, I thought it was time for a little talk. A lot has happened since May 25, 1965—our last goodbye. You walked out the door and headed to Cities Service for another eight hours of work in the oil patch, and you never came home.
You were about two months shy of your 36th birthday, and I was 12 and in 6th grade. I thought you were old, but now that I’m 64, I know how young you really were—perspective is a strange thing.
I’m thankful for the memories that I have of you. They were formed through the things you taught me, and I’ve passed those lessons on to my kids.
Speaking of my kids, there’s a little bit of you in both of them. I coached Wade throughout little league, and he learned to hit, catch and throw the same way you taught me; and he’s now coaching his daughter and son.
I remember how much you loved to whistle and sing. Jennifer has your appreciation for a good song, and a beautiful voice. You would enjoy listening to her sing.
I never told you, but when you showered, I would sit outside on the patio and listen to you sing: Mocking Bird Hill, Red River Valley, and Get Along Home Cindy were your favorites.
Whenever I drive East towards Eureka, my thoughts still turn towards Sallyards, and your mom’s chicken and noodles, cherry pie, and singing while she played the piano; and, I can’t forget Grandpa standing on the piano bench. He would have Uncle Jim and Harold Dale standing back to back to see who was the tallest.
By the way, Jim called Monday. He’s the last of the 6 Seymour siblings, but I guess you know that because the rest are with you.
I hope Uncle Kenneth and Aunt Catherine kept their promises to me. I spent quite a bit of time with both of them while they were dying, and asked them to tell you “hi,” and to let you know that I still love you.
Well dad, I better wrap this up. I’ll stop by the cemetery a little later today with a yellow rose; they were your favorite—I still remember.
Happy Birthday and I Love you!
Stan
I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live. ~John 11:25
When my children were toddlers and they wanted something, they were taught to say: “Please.” When they really wanted something, they would look at me with their smiling eyes, and say: “Pretty please.”
For many people, yesterday’ shooting in Fort Lauderdale stirred-up unwanted memories of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold in Columbine and Dylann Roof in Charleston. We should not be surprised that these events are beyond our comprehension, because they are often perpetrated by people who, unlike most, have no concept of conscious.
The rhythmic and timely sound of a ticking second hand has been hushed by the advance of technology and the proliferation of digital watches. The value of a second isn’t found in its sound but in the action that transpires within this brief span of time that’s 1/86400th of a day and 1/60th of a minute.
People rarely partner stubbed toes and skinned knees with moments of pleasure . . . unless you’ve been a spunky kid who chased the sentinels of light through the darkness of July nights. Even though those carefree days of bare feet and childhood innocence are long gone, I still enjoy the nocturnal dance of fireflies as they flutter across the night sky.
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As a young boy, I was stirred by the words of President John F. Kennedy when he said: “Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.”
Quintus Horatius Flaccus was a poet who lived during the reign of Caesar Augustus, and he’s credited with saying: Exegi monumentum aere perennius. This phrase is found after the final poem in Horaces third book, and it means: I have made a monument more lasting than bronze.
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