What love looks like.

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This. This is what love looks like. Two people, a father and a daughter, engrossed in each other as if no one else were in the room. One shrouded in pride as he embraces the embodiment of all of his life’s lessons and selfless sacrifices, and the other feeling safe, strong and beautiful, ready to go out into the world and bestow all she’s been given upon others. Today, on the fifth anniversary of my father’s passing, I find myself staring into the depths of this photo and searching for meaning in all of the loss.

My father was someone who loved unconditionally. It was not only his children or his wife that qualified for special treatment, it was how he lived his life. Sure, he had grievances and held grudges just like anyone else; he was, after all, human. As I reflect and search for meaning and a positive twist on an awful day, I find myself in a state of somber celebration as it becomes clear that I am the recipient of the greatest gift of all time.  Arthur Robinet taught me how to find reward in giving, how to forgive those who don’t deserve it, and how to share these lessons with my own child by living his examples. My sister Judy lived these lessons, and as evidenced by the phenomenal group of friends she had amassed, she certainly was loved for it.

The downside to living the lessons shared by my father are plentiful. During their lifetimes, my father and sister rarely made time just for themselves. Their money, time and emotional energy was spent on those around them. Each enjoyed the devotion of special friends and family, but their selflessness didn’t insulate them from the selfishness and betrayal of some. My father and the daughter he taught to love were both abandoned by friends and family members alike at times, but they loved anyway. They were disrespected, waved aside, and disregarded in their times of need, but they gave of themselves anyway. While their detractors certainly caused them to feel the sting of loneliness and to question their own value at times, these downsides were outmatched by the depth and meaning offered to them by those who reciprocated their gift of unconditional love. Those who would take but not reciprocate have ceased to matter. The loss is theirs, though they may not be smart enough to know it.

Five years ago today, after several days of unconsciousness, my father opened his eyes, squeezed our hands with what little strength he had left, and spent his last living moments trying to blow kisses to his children. His last act on this earth was to give us love, and to comfort us through his own pain. I watched my sister Judy follow his lead not long ago as she comforted the nurses responsible for her care, and as she fought fiercely against her disease to be truly present and happy as she smiled up at her daughter on her 18th birthday…some of her last lucid moments, focused on loving her child.

There is no doubt in my mind that both my father and my sister found peace in these moments, because they equally felt the love they gave. These are the lessons, and this is the meaning. You have to give to receive; it is impossible to feel love if you haven’t offered it without expectation. Pity the selfish rather than begrudge them; their lives are lacking and it causes them to act foolishly. Most of all, while it’s important to look to the future as my father and sister were undoubtedly doing in this photo, it is equally important to look back and remember how you arrived where you are, to release yourself from all that is toxic, and to embrace the positivity and love that surrounds you every day.

Look again at this beautiful photo. This is what love looks like.

 

Dance.

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When my sisters and I were kids, we didn’t bond over much. We had very different interests, were just far part enough in age to not share friends, and had a healthy case of general sibling rivalry. We did however, all love music. In the early 80’s when Member’s Only jackets were in style and “jam-boxes” were all the rage, my sister Judy would borrow tapes from her friends and make copies of the ones I liked. It was sweet and generous; she did it for no other reason than she knew it would make me happy. Among the many albums she gave to me was Lionel Richie’s hit album “Can’t Slow Down”. I LOVED Lionel Richie. (He won a Grammy Award for Album of the Year in 1985 for “Can’t Slow Down” beating out Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen and Purple Rain by Prince. Stop judging me; you loved him, too). I played that tape to death, and ultimately warped it beyond repair, so, Judy made me a new one.

This morning as I was driving the neighborhood kids through the carpool line, “All Night Long”, one of the album’s many hits, came on, inciting five kids who’d never heard it to boogie in their seats. (“Tom bo li de say de moi ya, yeah, jambo jumbo…don’t lie, you’re singing it in your head already). A rush of memories flooded my mind, and I could see Judy’s young face smiling and singing along with me in the back room of our home. The kids jumped from the car and I was left alone with the chorus which was begging me to sway sing along, but instead I was suddenly awash in sobs. I felt as if I’d been hit in the face with a 30 pound jam-box. I pulled to the shoulder to collect myself, and to live the fleeting vivid memory of my sister, young, healthy, and dancing.

Moments later, the song ended, and my memory was interrupted by Eddie Murphy’s “Party All the Time”, which is arguably the worst song ever written and produced. The robust memory that had enveloped me so completely was gone, and I pulled back into traffic to head home and jump back into the reality of my daily grind. Time to ice my face before my first meeting so my puffy eyes don’t show, and try to get some real work done today because Judy would hate it if I were unproductive because I was crying for her. But first, rather than sweep this all away, I am going to put on one of her t-shirts and play “All Night Long” as loudly as I can on the big-screen TV, and shake it like it’s the 80’s.

Judy would want us to DANCE.

 

 

Judy Lynn Robinet Pisello

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Judy Lynn Robinet Pisello, 50, of Winter Park, Florida, passed away peacefully at home in the arms of family on Sunday, October 8, 2017. Judy was born on January 14, 1967 in Lapeer, Michigan and moved to Vero Beach, FL with her family at age 13. A graduate of Vero Beach High School and the University of Central Florida, Judy was a serial entrepreneur whose talents with technology and design led her to multiple successes in business, both independently as well as jointly with her husband, Tom. While her talents and business prowess were enviable, Judy’s proudest accomplishment by far was raising two beautiful, strong young women, both of whom she would accurately describe as fierce but sensitive, independent but loyal and generous. Her pride in and devotion to her daughters was boundless.

In her youth, Judy was well known for her athletic and academic achievements. As an adult, her ability to juggle the pressures and responsibilities of a full-time career while also raising two fabulous young ladies left many to wonder how she could do it all, and make it look so effortless. Throughout her life however, Judy may have been best known for her intelligent wit and her endlessly generous spirit.

Her phenomenal group of friends are a lasting testament to the kind of person Judy was. During her seven-year battle with cancer, a disease which she refused to allow to define her, Judy’s “village” came forward in droves to give of themselves in countless ways. When thanked for their generosity, each would say “she would do it for me”. Judy truly loved, and was loved by so many; a truth that brought her both pride and peace in times of hardship.

Judy is survived by her husband, Thomas Pisello and her daughters Sophia Grace Pisello and Alaina Rose Pisello of Winter Park, FL. She is additionally survived by her mother, Carolyn Robinet of Vero Beach, FL, and her siblings: Roger (Valaine) of Vero Beach, FL; Jean (Randy) Elkins of Seattle, WA; Ron (Edie) of Modesto, California; Susan Robinet of Seattle, WA; Diana (David) Buzinski of Harrison, MI; and Bill (Marie) of Long Beach, CA. She was preceded in death by her father, Arthur Lyle Robinet.

A celebration of Life has been planned for Sunday, October 22nd at the Alfond Inn Winter Park FL at 1:30 p.m. In lieu of flowers, a donation can be made at: http://floridahospital.me/goto/judypisello

Sign the guest book

 

More Arthur’s Daughter posts

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I haven’t visited this blog in a very long time, perhaps since my beautiful sister became ill… I look forward to adding stories which highlight the good memories in hopes of bringing smiles back to the faces of friends and family. if you have stories you would like to share about my sister or someone else, please feel free to share them with me.

There are some who call me…Beaner?

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Long before Daddy left us, I started making efforts to savor my moments with him. We lived so far apart, and our in-person visits were too few. For several years, each time I left him I’d pause to memorize his face, his smell, all of it. I was so afraid that each time I saw him might be my last. The first time I remember doing this was the day he left me at the Orlando airport to move to Switzerland. The photo attached here was taken just after I returned…and I was lucky to have had several more opportunities that followed this one.

Memorizing someone’s face is easy, especially when it belongs to someone you love, but a voice is a different animal. Each year on my birthday, my parents would call and sing to me. I’m lucky to have saved a few songs as voice-mails, because now each year I long for the call that won’t come. (If you are someone who leaves me messages and wonders why I never call you back, this is why. My system forces me to listen to all of my saved messages and re-save them once a week before I can hear the new ones. I just can’t bring myself to do it.)

Well, today is my birthday, so I’m going to share one of my prized possessions with you…Daddy’s voice. If you listen to it you’ll hear him use my childhood nickname – one that is reserved for use by a very select few. As a kid I hated it, but I’d give anything right now to hear him call me “Beaner”.

Don’t Let the “Goo” Throw You

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When I started this blog, it was not my intention to fill it with recipes, but rather memories of a great man that I could later share with my son. Well, it turns out that many of my memories are tied to food, or at least certain foods and flavors remind me of Daddy. One of my favorite comfort foods from childhood has always been Dad’s goulash. I know the name of this dish might put you off, I mean it starts with “goo”, but you have to try it. It is savory, simple, hearty and warm. It was waiting for me when I came in from throwing snowballs at my sisters. It was what was for dinner after my father put in a 12 hour day and then took the time to make dinner and spend quality time with us afterwards. Sure, dishes had to be done after dinner and that chore was hated by all and enforced strictly by my old man, but after the heavy stomping and guilt-trips came hanging out with Dad, even if it meant watching Dan Rather and complaining about it. It was awesome, and so is his Goulash. The only thing better than Dad’s goulash is leftover Goulash. Seriously. Awesome.

Like many of the dishes my Dad made for us, there is no written recipe, and it is unlikely that the exact ingredients available to him then are available to us now. Our ground beef might have been venison, and the veggies probably came from the huge garden he maintained out back. So, it’s been a challenge over time to find a mix of modern items that results in a taste from my childhood, and flashes of my father cooking for the family in our tiny galley kitchen in Michigan. Tonight I nailed it. This fact has been verified by my little sister, so I stand by my claim.

Ready for a simple comfort food that is even better on day two, feeds an army and freezes well? This one is for you!

Comfort Food Memories: Art’s Famous Goulash

  • 4 cans (14.5 ounces) diced tomatoes
  • 2 cans (28 ounces) crushed tomatoes
  • 16 ounces beef broth
  • 1 small can diced green chilies
  • 1 pound ground beef
  • 1 large yellow onion, diced
  • 6 celery stalks WITH LEAVES, chopped into small pieces
  • 1 tablespoon crushed garlic
  • 1 teaspoon cumin
  • 1 teaspoon black pepper
  • 1 teaspoon ground sea salt
  • 1 teaspoon basil
  • 16 ounces (1 bag or box) macaroni pasta

Directions:

  • Empty the contents of all the canned goods (tomato items, chilies and beef broth) into a large spaghetti pot and add the spices. Simmer on a low setting. This will incorporate the dried spices into the soup while you work on other items.
  • Dice the onion into very small pieces and brown them in a skillet on medium heat using a small amount of butter. Don’t be impatient and turn up the heat – this step takes a few minutes. If you rush it you won’t get the same flavor. Grind a little sea salt and black pepper on the onions while they were browning for extra yumminess.
  • When the onions are somewhat transparent and a bit browned, add the ground beef and mix it all together. Fry until the meat is still a bit pink and then add to the spaghetti pot. Do not change the heat setting on the big pot. Stir occasionally.
  • Chop the celery into small pieces; about the size you’d want on a salad. The celery leaf is very important to the flavor of this soup. It is the cornerstone, frankly. I imagine that you could substitute the sea salt with celery salt for a similar outcome, but do yourself a favor and just make the effort to find leafy celery. It’s not always easy, but most markets that sell bulk celery will have young stalks with leaves still on them. Add the celery and the leaves to the big pot.
  • Allow all of this to simmer for at least 30 minutes, but at a low temperature it could simmer for maybe 90 minutes before the meat starts to fall apart. The longer you let it simmer, the more flavor you’ll get from the celery leaf. Just do it.
  • In a separate pot, bring the pasta to a boil and cook until it is tender but not mushy. Rinse and drain the pasta. Here is a tip: if you wish to freeze the soup for later portions, keep the pasta separate or don’t cook it as long. The pasta will continue to soften in the leftover soup and soak up all the broth. Otherwise, add the pasta to the soup and remove from heat.

This recipe makes, um, a TON of goulash, but in my experiment I added things as I went along and so it grew heads. I imagine one could cut this in half and make plenty for a family of four for dinner with leftovers. It is more filling than it looks! FYI – my sister asked that I update this recipe for the modern masses and include the fact that a splash of Tapatio hot sauce gave this dish a nice kick. While I am sure she’s right, I like Dad’s goulash just the way it is. It reminds me of just the way he was.

 

Daddy Judy Roger

For my sister Judy, who looks like Daddy and could pass for my son’s twin in this photo.

 

 

 

Dad’s Killer Scalloped Potatoes

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What is it that can take you back to your childhood? Maybe it is a particular smell, a song, or perhaps seeing someone who resembles a person from your past. For me there are a handful of things, but some of my Dad’s favorite dishes take the cake (no pun intended). October 1st was Dad’s birthday, so in honor of him I tried my hand at one of his most famous concoctions- one loved by all of the Robinet kids, and one with no existing written recipe: Scalloped Potatoes with Ham.

scalloped potatoes

Dad’s scalloped potatoes – You know you want some!

Trial and Error. Mostly Error.

Dad was amazing. He worked for himself performing hard labor tasks all day every day, and then came home to do all of the cooking at our house. Yes, ALL of it. He had a large family, few resources, and a knack for making things up in the kitchen with a great deal of success. I have tried many times over the years to re-create his famous scalloped potato dish with varying degrees of success, but until now I’ve been unable to capture the glorious combination of taste, texture, and smell. I have tried slicing the potatoes at varying thicknesses, attempted the creamy consistency by using varieties of broth, milk and/or cheese, and used a mixture of spices that I thought we may have had around the house way back when. Nothing ever worked. This time, I nailed it. What’s different? I added one of my most prized possessions to the recipe.

The Pan

After my father’s funeral, I found myself at his home looking for keepsakes – anything that would remind me of him. Among the special items I collected was a decades old deep-sided pan with a broken handle. My family knows it as the “scalloped potato pan”. I grabbed it, clutched it to my chest and had a good cry. I think my sister was jealous that I found it first. In any case, my latest and most successful attempt at recreating my Dad’s recipe included the use of this sacred pan. Realistically the favorable outcome is likely due to the depth of the pan or the thickness of the metal, but I prefer to believe that this beat up, broken old pan leaked a little love into his birthday dinner.

Dad's scalloped potato pan

Dad’s scalloped potato pan

Now for the Good Stuff

It’s that time of year when the weather cools off and warm comfort foods replace lighter summer fare. Try this recipe and I promise that you will have to re-rank your favorite comfort foods, allowing space for this one in your top three at minimum. Side note: we normally ate this as a single-item dinner, but I recommend pairing it with some roughage!

Directions and Ingredients:

First, adjust the oven rack to the middle position and pre-heat at 350 degrees. Put one foot up on the counter (my siblings will get why that’s funny) , peel the potatoes and place them into a big bowl of water until you’re ready to slice them. A heavy metal pan will work best – the one I used is round and maybe 3 inches deep. The depth is important as the liquid will evaporate and thicken. Too deep and it will stay milky, too shallow and it will burn.

  • 2 cloves of garlic, smashed
  • 2 lbs of potatoes, sliced at 1/8 inch thick (This matters. You can find a slicer, also called a mandoline at Target or the like which will make the slicing easy and the slices uniform. A half-decent one will run you about 20 bucks.)
  • 1 lb smoked ham, diced
  • 1 large onion, diced
  • 2 ½ cups of half-and-half (This also matters…don’t use regular milk. You’ll screw it up. Work out tomorrow).
  • 1 ½ tsp salt (Sea salt works best)
  • 1 tsp black pepper (Freshly ground if you can. Back off a bit if you aren’t a pepper fan, but Dad loved himself some black pepper. I say go for it).
  • A dash of nutmeg…seriously.
  • A dash or more to taste of cayenne pepper
  • 6 or 7 slices of thick cut bacon. Splurge for the good stuff so it’s not all fatty. Cut into half-inch pieces or so.
  • 1 tbsp butter, softened

Place all ingredients except the butter and bacon into a large saucepan and bring to a boil, making sure that the liquid covers the potatoes. Stir frequently to avoid burning and reduce the heat to medium. Simmer for two or three minutes until the sauce thickens a bit. Pour all of this into your baking pan and use a fork to distribute the potatoes evenly.

Press the contents into the pan gently to make sure that the potatoes are covered with liquid. Scatter the butter over the top and bake for 1 hour; check to make sure that the top is not burning – if you feel it looks dry, add a few tablespoons of half-and-half over the top to baste. Scatter the bacon over the top and continue baking another 30 minutes. The top should be all brown and bubbly…Mmmmmmm!

Let the pan sit for at least 10 minutes before you try to serve it. The first bite of this dish vaulted me back to my happy place in rural Michigan in the early 70’s…I hope you enjoy it!

Daddy and his oldest four at Niagara Falls

Daddy and his oldest four at Niagara Falls

 

Better Late Than Never

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On October first I shared a post on Facebook for my Father’s birthday; I should have also shared it here:

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Today is my Dad’s birthday, so I’ll be making his favorite cake, his famous scalloped potato dish, and working on my kitchen project. Here are some updated photos 🙂

kitchen before and after

Family Faces

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It’s funny how my sisters and I are told by various people that we could be twins, or that we look nothing alike. I often see my Dad in Jack’s face, and I thought I saw my own as well until my sister, Judy resurfaced this picture. I had never seen it. The picture was taken just shy of my first birthday. I have to say, Jack is the spitting image of my sister. Like Jack, she too has Daddy’s smile, and a little bit of his spirit to boot. Maybe that’s why I love her so much <3.

jean baby pic

For Joan and Ethan

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Dear friends and family of Joan Robinet (Lay),

Please share your photos and stories so that I may create a keepsake for Joan’s son, Ethan. It would mean the world.

Also, a college fund has been established for Ethan. We would like to continue to support his future the way Joanie would have liked to. Please visit and share the link!

Thank you for loving Joan, and thank you in advance for sharing your memories!

PLEASE VISIT YOUCARING.COM/JOANANDETHAN

Joan and Ethan

Joan and Ethan

Glad he’s not here…

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Life gets busy. I haven’t written in a while, simply because I haven’t had the time or emotional strength to pour my heart out and onto a keyboard. I’ve been thinking of my Dad quite a bit, but frankly, I’m glad he’s not here. Over the last several weeks when I would normally miss (and then write about) my father, I have made an effort to put him out of my mind.

I almost wrote a post this Easter about how my Dad would color eggs with onion skins, but instead I started sanding my kitchen cabinets. I thought of posting again on April Fool’s Day (this was a favorite holiday; we would prank each other often over the years) but I couldn’t think of a good way to pull a fast one on Mom without both of us ending up a bit sad. Instead, I went to the home improvement store. (It was raining, and they allow dogs inside – kill two walks with one stone.) Most recently I considered sharing a story abut how my Dad used to jiggle a glass of ice water over my head to coerce me into getting out of bed (he would count to three and then SPLASH). Jack is not a morning person, and sometimes I just don’t have time for him to feel like waking up at his very leisurely pace. Rather than write, I chose to conduct an online search for the perfect dishwasher and save my writing for later. If my Dad were around, it would be hard for me to call him right now anyway, so I guess I’m glad he’s not here.

Dad was a carpenter among other things, just like his brother Lawrence. I feel closest to my dad when I am building or fixing something, so needless to say I am in the midst of a full kitchen remodel. I think that both Daddy and uncle Larry would be impressed with my DIY skills, and although they could each give me some great pointers, I am still glad that neither of them are here. Just over a week ago, our family lost my beautiful cousin, Joan. Dad had a real soft spot in his heart for Joan, and I always took it as a compliment when he told me that I reminded him of her. Joan was Lawrence’s baby…his sweet, blond-haired, blue-eyed bubbly baby girl. I can’t imagine how painful it would have been for my father and for Lawrence to watch Joan suffer, or to have to endure her passing. I absolutely ache for those who loved her, for her teenage son, Ethan, and mostly for Joan herself who knew she’d have to leave Ethan behind. I am so thankful that she is out of pain, and that my father and her parents were saved the anguish of losing her.

Life is short, cancer sucks, and 50 is too young. I love my father more than ever, but right now…I’m glad he’s not here.

 

 

Rhubarb Crisp

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When I was little, we lived in Michigan, way out in the country. Dad had a huge garden and grew all sorts of vegetables. It was fun to help him pick the beans or pull carrots out of the ground, but my favorite plant was the rhubarb bush on the side of the house.

All by itself, rhubarb is nasty. How do I know that exactly? Well, because the rhubarb plant was next to the sidewalk where I rode my big-wheel in loops around the house. Each time I passed the rhubarb plant, I’d break off a piece of the stalk and chew on it like Dad did. I liked it because he liked it, but let’s face it, rhubarb is biter and stringy. Add the right amount of sugar and cinnamon and it’s heaven, especially when you put a crunchy oat topping on it. Daddy loved rhubarb crisp probably more than any other dessert, and God bless the idiot that ruined it with the addition of strawberries. He was a purist. Every recipe my dad had seemed to call for five cups of raisins, but not this one. Don’t mess with the rhubarb!

My neighbor brought me some fresh rhubarb from her garden yesterday, in fresh, cleaned, glorious bite-sized chunks. I love my neighbor. I can’t wait to make some rhubarb crisp and toast my daddy with a glass of milk. Here’s a little piece of my childhood for you to bake and enjoy. It’s awesome, I swear it!

Rhubarb Crisp:

Ingredients

  • 4 cups rhubarb, cut into 3/4 ” pieces
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1/4 cup flour
  • 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
  • 1 cup flour
  • 1 cup brown sugar
  • 1/2 cup rolled oats
  • 1/2 cup melted butter

Directions

  1. Combine rhubarb, sugar, flour and cinnamon and put into 8″ x 8″ x 2″ glass baking dish.
  2. Combine flour, brown sugar, rolled oats and melted butter and sprinkle streusel over rhubarb mixture.
  3. Bake at 375 for 35 minutes.

Butterflies and Eskimos

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Do you recognize little bits of someone you’ve lost in yourself or in someone else? My two year old son, Jack, reminds me more of my father each day in funny little ways that always make me smile. Sure, he has my father’s hazel eyes, and the shape of his face is my Dad’s, but he did something this morning that warmed my heart and tickled my face.

My Dad was a big man, well over 6 feet tall with a booming voice and a commanding stride. He was, to me, a gentle, silly giant and a human jungle-gym. He would carry me on his shoulders, throw me several feet into the air, and let me “walk on the ceiling” by carrying me upside down by my ankles and holding my feet to the support beam in our dining room. His affection was larger than life, but nothing was better than when he would hold me cheek to cheek with him and tickle my eyes with his eyelashes. If I close my eyes right now I can still feel the scratch of his whiskers, the warmth of his skin and the flutter of his butterfly kisses. The nose-to-nose Eskimo kisses were nice too, but a distant second to the feeling of my father’s whole face.

This morning, without prompt, Jack crawled up into my lap with a sheepish little grin, took my face on either side with his tiny little hands, and tickled me with his eyelashes. I’d never shown him this.

Good morning, Daddy ❤

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Why this blog?

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What happens when you lose the one person who makes you feel anchored, who makes you feel a sense of worth, who makes you feel like you matter? How do you fill that space when suddenly you feel lost and invisible? Although loss is a part of life that eventually we all experience, there is no simple recipe for dealing with it, nor is there a map showing us how to find sources of that which is now missing from our lives. Rather than ache from the emptiness of loss, I will create new memories with my father by allowing everything he brought to my life to influence how I live it each day.

Every day I notice something small that I wouldn’t have if not for my father’s influence. Maybe it is the song I sing to my son at night, or a recipe of his that I now use for my family. No matter what it is, no matter how small, I want to acknowledge it and remind myself to smile when I think of my Daddy rather than cry. I want to write all of it down so that my son can create a picture in his mind of who his grandfather was. In short, this blog is my way of turning grief into pleasant new memories for my son, and keeping my father’s memory alive.

While this blog is dedicated to my own amazing father, I’d like to acknowledge the unsung heroes of the lives of anyone willing to share a story. I hope that you will!

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I miss my Daddy…

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It’s been just over a year since my father passed. People who tell you that time heals,…well…maybe I haven’t let enough of it go by to make a fair assessment. I find myself missing him more than less each day, and have very few people to share my pain with. My sister aches for him like I do, and most of our conversations either begin or end with “I miss my Daddy”. If nothing else is said, either of us can tell what the other’s day has been like just by hearing that phrase. For us, Daddy represented unconditional love and acceptance, and an endless source of strength, wisdom and compassion. Even though my father was too fragile even for a hearty hug in his last years, just holding his hand offered reassurance that we were loved, that the world was not too much to bear, and that any and all problems had a solution. The world is truly darker without him, but if there is one thing he taught me, it is that there is a solution to all problems, and, if you’re creative, it is usually right under your nose. The creative solution to my grief is to approach each day as he would, and try to be as much like him as I can be. If I am persistent in this (another trait of my father’s), maybe he will be with me again. Right now, I just miss my Daddy.

It feels good to share. Feel free to comment below or contact me privately.

 

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