|The dessert at the Chef's Table Dinner on our cruise.|
My father was blessed with an appetite that allowed him to tell his family at home, as young soldier in World War II, that he loved the army. Army food was abundant and not necessarily kosher, two attributes he had never experienced before. He had a metabolism that allowed him to consume large quantities of it, throughout his life, without ever gaining a girth that would have made his army uniform snug. (Just for the record- I have no such luck- I inherited my metabolism from my mother.)
Friday, I sat at my desk, catching up with paperwork, when Kenya, RC and Edwin were working with the young man who got the Resource Room for upper grades, when it was taken away from me. The sixth graders were on a trip.
They were reviewing the Civil War. The subject of dads came up. RC spends every weekend with his dad, a cable TV installer. He was talking about it.
"I wish I could talk to my dad."
I wasn't sure if it was RC or Kenya.
I wished I could talk to my dad too, I thought. I wish I could tell him some of the dirty jokes I heard last week.
Edwin said his dad was murdered when he was a baby, Kenya said he never saw his dad. Young Resource Room teacher said his dad played college basketball.
And then the discussion went back to the causes of the Civil War.
I marked sixth grade social studies test.
I got to spend forty years with my father. I shared sunshine and off colored jokes and endless buffets.
And for that I am truly grateful,