My Dad is camping somewhere in the southeast today between Gettysburg and Washington, D.C. He’s with my youngest brother’s Boy Scout troop. My Dad would say that camping isn’t his favorite activity, which is his gentle southernly way of saying that he hates camping. He called my Mother from the wilderness yesterday to say that he’d slept in his sleeping bag on a wooden board in the rain the night before, and by the time he comes back he’ll be “much tougher.” Or at least that much more thankful, at age 61, for his own comfortable mattress.

My Dad is drawl and gentleness, big hugs and capable of a papa bear kind of wrath when anyone messes with his cubs. And doing the things he likes least with a wry smile because he knows it matters to us.

Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.


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