Sandwich
Here’s some stuff I’ll remember from my Father’s Day weekend:
Getting almost five-year old Will an early birthday present of a new fishing rod and, on the very first cast into not so picturesque but close enough 4-Mile Run, catching a bass.
End of little league season trip to National’s Park on a rainy Saturday morning where a few dozen kids sit in the dugout, throw pitches in the bullpen, take swings in the batting cages and get free hats, hotdogs, and tickets.
At the swimming pool where I grew up a few decades ago, now watching my own kids splash in the water, enjoying a Belgian beer at a table in the corner where there’s a pleasant breeze.
A card by Jack with his best cursive on kid’s handwriting paper with the dotted blue line in the middle to show the height of lower case letters, using “you’re” correctly as in, “I think you’re the best.”
Putting together five decent shots in a row to make par on one of nine holes on a windswept hilltop course that reminded my brother-in-law’s dad of Cape Cod.
Stopping by my parents’ house for a father’s day lunch of Balducci sandwiches and frozen custard from the best place in the neighborhood (even the President goes to the Dairy Godmother).
While he shuffles out to the back yard patio, Dad’s legs kicking crazily from the Parkinson’s, as if some twisted puppeteer has taken them over and is amusing himself by fastforwarding the controls.
