This summer I’ve remembered, in various places, some of the gifts my Dad gave me. When both of Margaret’s Tevas spontaneously fell apart, I recalled his reading “The Deacon’s Masterpiece” to me. When the Carter Family came up on the iPod, I remembered his playing the ukelele and singing “Worried Man Blues.” Then later on, a radio show (perhaps American Routes, perhaps Back Porch Music) played another song he used to sing. It wasn’t “The Fox Went Out On A Chilly Night,” but it was something like that.
As I was clearing up my work table at the townhouse, I uncovered a Christmas card Dad sent us. He won’t send any more, but we’ll be receiving gifts from him as long as I hear and remember.