Father’s Day is next Sunday, the 17th.
I was thinking it was this past weekend because Father’s Day sales have begun. Silly me. If stores can put Christmas stuff on the shelves the day after Halloween, they certainly aren’t going to wait around for Father’s Day to promote lawn mowers, shavers, and electric hand tools.
Fine with me.
Because last week I got a discount on interior paint in a Father’s Day sale!
Anyway . . .
I bring this up because of a story Wes told me. Wes is a fellow retiree I met recently.
It’s a father’s story.
Wes is thinking about visiting his daughter across the country.
“I haven’t seen her or her husband in nine years. They invited me to come out and see the cabin they bought. . . I would like to see them again,” he adds wistfully.
“That would be nice. I hope you do.”
The conversation wanders hither and yon until we reach a place of memories, the way retirees often do. Wes tells the following story:
“I marry a gal who has a little boy,” he begins.
“I have a little girl. The boy is a good kid but, as time goes by, he starts to get wild, you know how it goes.
“We send him off to military school. That works out. He’s in military school for four years and comes home to spend the summers with us.
“Well, the wife and I get a divorce and she and the boy move to Montana. The boy doesn’t like Montana so he joins the Navy. He’s been all over the world. In the Special Forces. Whenever there’s trouble in the world, that’s where they send him to help straighten things out.
“He’s put in enough years to retire now but the Navy doesn’t want to let him go. They want him to be an instructor for Special Forces. So that’s what he does. He’s an instructor for Special Forces.”
“Years ago, when he was a young man, he came to visit.
“Being a young man he was chasing around, asking the local girls for dates. Well, the big rodeo was coming up and he wants to take this certain girl to the rodeo. He drives up to her house and asks her to go with him.
“I don’t know exactly what happened. He comes back to the house and he’s all upset because she turned him down flat. He’s going around with his lower lip sticking out. Not only did she let him down pretty hard, now he doesn’t have a date for the rodeo.
“I say to him, “Why don’t you take your sister? She’s not really your sister, you know.”
“He thought about that for a minute and says, ‘Do you think she’d go with me?’
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her and find out?”
Wes hesitates before continuing his story.
Oh, here comes the punchline.
“He asks her out and she says yes. They go to the rodeo and two weeks later they’re married!”
“Oh my gosh –“
Before I can blurt out more, Wes continues jokingly, “I like to tell people that my son married his sister. That always gets their attention.”
“That’s funny. I imagine it would!”
“Yep, my son married his sister. They’ve had a wonderful marriage.”
About this blog . . .
I try to stay away in order to have a break to refresh and recharge. It’s difficult for me to do that. First of all, I feel that I’m letting down my faithful readers. Plus, I’m compelled to check comments several times a day to make sure everything is okay.
Face it, RVSue. You and this blog are joined at the hip and at the heart. You aren’t easily separated.
I would like to back off commenting for a while.
When I reply to every comment, it pretty much takes over my day. I appreciate those of you who pledge to “carry the ball” in comments. Please welcome new people, introduce topics, answer questions, and be your wonderful selves!
Update on life at the house:
The house is a two-bedroom, two-bath, with a small den. I’m almost finished painting the den. After that’s done, I’ll start on Nancy’s bedroom. Having these indoor projects is great because outdoor tasks have come to a halt. This is my first June in Arizona and I’m learning that every day by mid-afternoon the temperatures are into the 90s and 100s.
Saturday, on the way to the mailboxes, the crew and I are caught in rain! What fun!
I get the mail and together the three of us run toward home.
On the porch, Roger hurries to the door to get out of the rain.
“Roger, we’re on a porch. The rain doesn’t get us on the porch, honey. See?”
Once he absorbs the concept of Covered Porch, he turns and engages Reggie in energetic play.
I watch the precious rain, breathe deeply the metallic smell of it, and share the excitement of the boys. Birds are chirping and flitting back and forth between the porch and the tree nearby.
Gosh, I don’t remember the last time I saw rain.
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