Tonight I made strawberry shortcake. When it was clear that we were not going to eat it all, I rang my father to make sure that he was home and asked if it was ok if I brought something down. One of the nice things about our current home is that we are only a half a mile from my parent’s house (this was especially helpful when my mother was sick). So I packaged up the shortcake, leashed the dog, and headed down. He hollered for me to meet him at the back entrance. I told him to bring a fork. “oh, no. I couldn’t eat any more. What did you bring?”
“Well, maybe I could find room for a little.” Let me tell you that there was barely any left in the bowl to make it worth washing. This made me very happy. I always worry about his eating. He eats only about two vegetables and eats his bagel with cinnamon sugar on it daily. He really should be made an honorary Italian for all the pasta he eats. Sometimes, when I look at him it is hard to believe that he was once a top athlete. I would bring him more food, but he doesn’t like the food that we eat. I wish that he would spend more time up with us, but he doesn’t like that we don’t allow people to smoke in our house. We try to get together at least once a week for coffee. We usually talk every other day – more during great sporting events. And we’ve been planning time together like the visit to the Titanic Exposition, going to seminars at his alma mater, or taking in a play. Even at 37, I still am daddy’s little girl.