Marlyce's Words (Marley's Words in parenthesis and italics)

(Editing is a parent's job. Being edited by your children is a parent's prize.)

Monday morning, wishing I were with Marley (Dad). 

At the moment (My oldest daughter is a bit of an explorer and she's dragged her little family all over the country, like I dragged my little family from new house to new house to new house) I live over two thousand miles away and sometimes I count every one of them. 

But, for the most part, my dad is always close to me.  I'm not sure how we manage it but our connection is strong.  All I have to do is think about him and nine times out of ten, the phone rings and he's on the other end.

I long to see the city my parents (Lynn and Marley) are building, to be a part of all they are doing.  My dad excels at creating. He always has.  (Gosh, golly gee)

I remember, as a little girl, working side-by-side as he dug a hole in our backyard one weekend and created the most beautiful fishpond and waterfall.  But, even more important, I cherish the day we went to get the fish to fill that pond.  We drove out to a creek (Sugarloaf Creek in the High Sierra Desert of Arizona) about two hours away, to a place we had often camped when I was small. (Daddy Daughter outings!) We made a net of sorts out of a towel and Mesquite branches, scooping up a school of about a hundred little trout, transporting them in a five gallon bucket. 

Dad told me to stand in the bucket and let the little fish dart around my legs.  I remember laughing and squealing with delight. (Looking back though, I feel rather bad for the traumatized trout!)

It's these countless memories, (the little ones all strung together like the pearls in a necklace),  which help close the distance between him and I. (Dad and me.)

Sometimes I get lonely to be a part of all that is happening out there in his neck-of-the-woods but then I remember that he created me, too.  I am a part of him and by extension, a part of all they are building. 

Maybe one of these days, I'll come out and stand in the midst of your school (Dad).

Wow. Ouch?

I am a blessed man. I am nothing but another man standing in a long line of explorers and risk takers and builders and pioneers.

You are too.

Genetic memory is for real. The power of history courses through our veins and plows the roads ahead. This wildly connective genealogy, (which we happen, all of us to share) brings us to a simple understanding of why we do what we do. It also reminds us of when we screw up.

I'm blessed with five beautiful daughters. Three are married. Two are about to be. Eight grandkids dot my thoughts in exclamation points of pure joy and yet, I screwed up and how, how many times? An unkind word, a too hurried voice, a compliment not paid?

Life has a way of letting us know, as we let go and dig deep inside, that there's gold in us all.