"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.)