My friend Karen recently posted a suggestion that all of us should reach out with gratitude. Her post was timely because I'd put into motion a similar thought.

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Yesterday I was standing at my kitchen counter cutting up cantaloupe. I have a method to this process, which I employ each time, and each time thoughts start to whir in my head. When I'm in my kitchen, it seems like a lot of thinking goes on. Is it the rhythms of slicing and stirring that transport my thoughts - or perhaps it's the simmering aromas or crushed herbs? Nonetheless, it all blends to become a potion for thinking.

I thought about my father. He's a most splendid person. He's always been well liked for his easy, jovial manner. His nickname, Buddy, has been appropriate.

My father didn't have an easy childhood. He started young with the family business. His was a no-frills childhood, which was probably true for many of that generation. During those days, building a business was more important than education, and then WWII intruded. My father received his high school diploma just a few years ago. He's now 87 years old.

So yesterday I called to thank my father. To let him know that I k-n-o-w the sacrifices he had to make to provide opportunities for me. I attended fine private schools. I had beautiful clothes. I had lessons of every invention. I attended pricey summer camps. Foods were plentiful. My father worked hard to provide generously.

I call my father frequently, but every so often I call solely to tell him how much I appreciate all he did for me. I should tell him more often, because his memory has been skittish lately. Conversations hide or are lost. New Year's Eve I called and he regaled me with stories of my daughter's recent visit to Florida. Yesterday I heard the same stories all over again. Life with my father has become a Groundhog Day loop. And that's okay. I'd sit rapt to simply hear him recite the alphabet. I want to bottle his voice so that every so often I can take a sip.

Eight years ago when I moved to the mountains of Tennessee, I was instructed by a relative to never reveal my origins. This relative has lived a fabricated life for 62 years. She's ashamed of her common hardscrabble Irish stock. Her instructions were quite clear... that I should never reveal the truth. So I haven't. It's perplexing, because I'm so very, very proud of my father and who he is and what he's accomplished. My Daddy was a plumber like his father before him. He was on call 24/7 in the small town where we lived. People probably saw him more often than they wanted. Everyone knew my Daddy.

Posting here really isn't a breach of confidentiality of my family's origins, though I no longer really give a fig about the polyester life my Tennessee relatives wear. My father is made of the real stuff, and Karen, you've given me the opportunity to concur with you - that we all should take a moment to deliver gratitude to someone.

After the conversation with my father, I realized there was every good chance my words would evaporate and be forgotten. My father forgets so much these days. So many conversations are repeated. Yet, to hear his sweet voice humbled by my love and gratitude... well, he might forget the conversation but I won't... and I suspect the words are tucked someplace in his amazing heart and will peek out every so often.


My father landed in French Morocco for 2 years during WWII




Toddler Reenie with Buddy




My 82 year old father