The black-and-white picture of the B-24 on the front of the faded postcard caught my attention. I flipped it over to find my dad’s barely legible handwriting, smeared as it was by a browned water stain, postmarked on December 12, 1944, from San Marcos Army Air Field, San Marcos, TX. “Dear Folks,” it began (“Folks” …
I wondered if the water was cold as I watched their Pastor, Dr. John Ditty, steady them, their clothes clinging to their bodies, as they found their footing out of the water after their river baptism. We were there with other family members to see our son, David Jr., and his wife, Kayla, being baptized. …
“What’s that over there?” Lori asked. We were rummaging through all the stuff you have to rummage through for a garage sale. In a corner, sagging under the weight of outdated CDs and old magazines, a box was hiding. “House plans,” I answered when Lori asked what was in it. “House plans? From where?” She …
When Dad was nearing the last years of his life, when he could no longer move about and travel like he once had, he would sometimes wistfully talk of how he wanted to visit someone, somewhere, “one more time.” “One more time,” he would say. “I’d like to drive to Kentucky and visit you one …
“You can ride with us to the awards ceremony,” my daughter Madi told me. She would pick up my wife, Lori, and sit together to watch our 2nd-grade granddaughter, Emmie, receive several achievement awards. “But what about Eli?” I asked. Eli, a 6th grader, was at another school, and his and Emmie’s ceremonies were close …