Remembering. . .

. . . A Good Life

I remember my father called me his “little man”.

I remember my father always took the blue highways when we vacationed, where there were old motels still advertising ‘Free Color TV’.

I remember my father scratching his thumb with his forefinger when he drove.

I remember exploring the woods, always faithfully accompanied by our German Shepard and two cats.

I remember gathering wildflowers for my mother.

I remember growing up.

I remember the first time I touched a girl’s breast and how magically silky smooth it was.

I remember my pride at working long and hard on our farm.

I remember my favorite playmate was a 2000 pound bull.

I remember we never cut hay if the guy down the road was cutting his, because that always meant it was going to rain.

I remember in the 6th grade changing schools and every classmate in my old school wrote me a letter.

I remember getting older.

I remember, every hour of every day, my loving parents.

I remember I’ve never in my life had a nightmare.

And I remember, as I look at a tumultuous world filled with tortured souls, how blessed I have been.

and here is one of the favorite things I’ve written. It’s a short-short story about remembering . . .