My wife's father was admitted to a nursing home a little over a year ago.  He will not likely see another year.  I have known him since I was about 15 years old raking leaves for him and hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl to whom I have now been married for 30 years.  There is not much we can do for him.  However, I now call my parents to talk with them almost every day on my way home from work.  It may only be a 10 or 20 minute call but it means a lot to me and, I think, to them as well.  They too, are in their 80's.

My father has never been one to show a great deal of emotion and rarely expresses his opinion or renders suggestions on what I or others should or shouldn't be doing with their lives.  Perhaps, in my case, it was because I was so willful, selfish, and hard-headed while growing up and proved myself incapable of receiving counsel.  In any event, one would almost think that he didn't care.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.

About four years into my marriage, I was proving how successful I could be at being a poor father and husband.  I was working hard at destroying my marriage.  My wife, two young sons, and I were living in Idaho, about 2000 miles from where our parents were.  I answered the phone one day to hear my dad say that he would be flying out for a visit and would arrive later that same week.  This was most unusual for my dad and I really didn't want him to come.  His sole purpose upon his arrival was to reason with and impress upon me the impact and consequences that my actions (and inactions) were having on my life and the lives of so many others.  I've never forgotten that visit.  To this day whenever anyone in all our family is having difficulty living right they are asked, "do you need an Idaho visit?"

As for my mother . . . she has always been there; to talk to, to listen, to play board games, to fix our most favorite meals (how about 17 coconut cream pies for a 17th birthday when requested instead of a cake!), to help my brothers and all our friends learn to water ski (willing to keep driving the boat hour after hour after hour in the summer), to take us fishing, to share stories about family and growing up, to stuff a little cash in our pockets at the end of a family visit, and so much more.

I thank G_d for giving me such loving, caring parents.  If I can only become to my children and grandchildren half of what they have been to me, I will have lived a successful life.

Thank you for giving me this opportunity to honor my parents in some small way.

From Mark

Mother - I don't have one particular memory - it is more like the memory of a feeling -- a warm, wonderful feeling -- and about something I didn't really know to appreciate until many years later. You see, my Mom refused to work outside of the home until all of her children were grown. I never knew what it was like to not have Mom "there" all the time. It was an incrediable sense of security I just walked in all the days of my youth. Of course that meant we had less "things" than some of our neighbors, but we always had all we needed of what really matters to a child. We always had - Mom.

Dad - My father is not an emotionally demonstrative man. In fact, I was in my sophomore year of college before I heard my father say "I love you" and even then it was because I asked. However, there is a well of wisdom that lives deep within him that seldom makes it to the surface. But one day it did, for me. I was still in college and just overwhelmed with demands of my classes and the three jobs I worked to pay all the bills and tuition. I was going to college in Florida and my family lived in Missouri, so they knew how I was doing, only by what I told them -- which, naturally, was always upbeat and positive. One day it just got to be too much and I wrote my dad a letter telling him about how tough it really was and how I was concerned that I might not be able to do what it would take to get that college degree. He wrote back the most wonderful letter. He was no longer "Father", a stern man with high expectations and low emotions. He became "Daddy" a person of understanding, softness and comfort. I don't recall the exact words, but the sense of love and hope it gave me endures.  And yes, I still have the letter. It is in my safety deposit box with the rest of my really important papers.

From Jane Anne Burnett

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