We just got back from a trip up to Vermont, where we stayed with my mom for five days. No matter how long we are away, it never seems like it is long enough. Never enough time to catch up with everybody; never enough time to do all the little jobs Mom needs help with; never enough time to look through all the papers and pictures Dad left....it was while we were looking through some of Dad's writings that we came across this note he had written about the memories he had of his father. I always knew Dad was a good writer, but it never really hit me until yesterday that my enjoyment for writing was passed down from my dad. I have always enjoyed the things he enjoyed. Yet, the note we found really hit me hard because I have kept my favorite memories written down too. His favorites have become my favorites and I hope that my children, if one of them should ever take up writing, will be found writing down their favorites and find they are the same as all of ours. Here is to family; memories; and to God given talents that are passed down to each generation. May we always glorify God as we continue on remembering good times.
"Where do I begin? I'll just start! Hot summer day trips in the car to the ocean; warm summer night rides to Dairy Queen; moves at the Avon Drive-In; Main vacations to Lakehurst camps; pitching horseshoes at the beach; fried clams; swimming under water for what seemed like forever; big, strong hard-working hands; a back scratch and a story at bedtime; a comforting “good night” from the other room after the lights were turned off; dancing with mom in the living room to “Victory at Sea”; coming home in a new 1957 Chevrolet; ice-skating on Avon pond; an occasional trip to the bedroom for a little discipline; the smell of shaving cream and Old Spice aftershave; Dad coming home from work with his work clothes smelling of oil and perspiration; a warm smile and a friendly, “Hi Pink!”; the smell of freshly mown grass and the radio broadcaster heralding the score of a Red Sox baseball game; Sunday afternoon naps in the living room chair; And Oh! How long that “in a minute” seemed while waiting for dad to “rest his eyes” and come outside to toss the ball, Dad's favorite pass-time; baseball if he wasn't glued to a radio, getting all stirred up over how the Sox were doing, he might be found in the backyard playing catch with me or found at a little league game encouraging me one with “you can do I, Pink!”
Where do I stop? The memories just go on and on. Now here I am with my own children; and what do you think has happened? Hot summer day trips in the car to the beach; warm summer night rides to get ice cream; a back scratch and a bedtime story; a “good night” after the lights are turned out; an occasional trip to the bedroom for a little discipline, etc, etc, etc. Thanks, Dad, for the memories." (written by James Bruce Pinkham about his father, James Henry Pinkham.)
"Where do I begin? I'll just start! Hot summer day trips in the car to the ocean; warm summer night rides to Dairy Queen; moves at the Avon Drive-In; Main vacations to Lakehurst camps; pitching horseshoes at the beach; fried clams; swimming under water for what seemed like forever; big, strong hard-working hands; a back scratch and a story at bedtime; a comforting “good night” from the other room after the lights were turned off; dancing with mom in the living room to “Victory at Sea”; coming home in a new 1957 Chevrolet; ice-skating on Avon pond; an occasional trip to the bedroom for a little discipline; the smell of shaving cream and Old Spice aftershave; Dad coming home from work with his work clothes smelling of oil and perspiration; a warm smile and a friendly, “Hi Pink!”; the smell of freshly mown grass and the radio broadcaster heralding the score of a Red Sox baseball game; Sunday afternoon naps in the living room chair; And Oh! How long that “in a minute” seemed while waiting for dad to “rest his eyes” and come outside to toss the ball, Dad's favorite pass-time; baseball if he wasn't glued to a radio, getting all stirred up over how the Sox were doing, he might be found in the backyard playing catch with me or found at a little league game encouraging me one with “you can do I, Pink!”
Where do I stop? The memories just go on and on. Now here I am with my own children; and what do you think has happened? Hot summer day trips in the car to the beach; warm summer night rides to get ice cream; a back scratch and a bedtime story; a “good night” after the lights are turned out; an occasional trip to the bedroom for a little discipline, etc, etc, etc. Thanks, Dad, for the memories." (written by James Bruce Pinkham about his father, James Henry Pinkham.)
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