Dad

When my Dad came to town my schedule went out the window. He believes these are his last years and he’s come to see his children, grand children and great grandchildren for the last time.

He’s staying with my sister who lives 50 miles away. So I drive through LA traffic and it takes me an hour and a half to get there. If you know me, I have a phobia for traffic so I try to go there after the morning rush and leave right before the evening rush. Like a vampire avoiding direct sunlight, I try to accomplish my tasks with him within the confines of the traffic hours. When I get back home, that’s when I get to do my day job.

For the moment, I am getting all his tech stuff ready before he returns home. I already fixed his iPad and returned his laptop that he couldn’t get to work properly. I helped him with his bank account. I already bought him a walker, earphones, and I plan to load some practical apps.

There was a time long ago when he was my role model. My early fond memories with him was walking to the doctor everyday for over a week to get tetanus shots after a dog had bit me. He would bring me and my bother to the barber shop where I saw him behave differently with “the guys.” He was always driving the family to school, to vacation spots, to family gatherings and special occasions. He wasn’t much of a talker … more of a shrewd businessman. He worked hard, was good in business, dedicated his life to my grandfather’s business at the expense of his own family. He had his faults … to some people he had lots of them and he definitely has enemies. But you know what? He’s still my Dad and I love him.

Dad’s hard of hearing, hard of seeing and hard of walking. At times I catch myself staring at him and wondering if I’m looking at my future self. Will my kids see me any differently? Will they know how much I love them? Will my ears and my eyesight fade as well? I’d like to, but it’s hard to have a meaningful conversation with him now. If I could, I’d like to know how he really feels about facing death and what will happen to him after that. Sadly, he and I do not share the same faith. He has been in my prayers forever. I wish my Dad a lot of things but there is one thing above everything else.

A song from Scott Wesley Brown

I could wish you joy and peace
To last a whole life long,
I could wish you sunshine,
Or a cheerful little song,
Or wish you all the happiness
That this life could bring

But I wish you Jesus,
But I wish you Jesus,
But I wish you Jesus,
More than anything.

I have a good relationship with my Dad and for that I am thankful. How are you and your Dad? Is he still around? Does he know how you feel about him … good or bad? Whoever your Dad is to you, realize one thing: out of all the possible Dads, God gave him to you. There must have been a reason, don’t you think?

TGIF people!

Joke of the Week

Thanks to Ernie of Fresno, CA for sending this joke.

Video of the Week

Another Flight Steward Gone Viral
Sent by Don of Kelowna, B.C.

66 Year Old Body Builder Receives a Special Present
A tearjerker video. Get out your tissues!

Don’s Puns

From Don’s collection of puns

Parting Shot

Thanks to Art of Sierra Madre, CA  who shared this.

The post Crocodile Dare appeared first on Traveling Archive.

I have a load of stuff I still have to do before my trip to Nigeria. I leave Thanksgiving Day. As you enjoy your turkey I will probably be stuck in the airport.

Someone wondered why I was going to unfamiliar Nigeria instead of going back to my homeland. My reply is because the opportunity presented itself.

Why did Mother Theresa minister in India instead of her homeland? Why do missionaries go to far away lands instead of helping their own kind? Were they wrong? I don’t think so.

Sometimes one needs to change to a different location to start afresh — away from the the confines of the box that people put them in. This is very true for late bloomers like me. There is a statistic that says traveling increases not only the physical borders but also the borders of one’s imagination and potential. Even Christ preferred to perform miracles away from his birthplace of Nazareth.

Has life stagnated for you? Perhaps it’s time to travel and expand your mind. Be the better person you really are.

BTW, I am not sure if I will have internet access or time to prepare my TGIF emails for the next 3 weeks. I will miss you for sure. Be good! Happy Thanksgiving!

“Where does he get this wisdom and the power to do miracles?” Then they scoffed, “He’s just the carpenter’s son, and we know Mary, his mother, and his brothers — James, Joseph, Simon, and Judas. All his sisters live right here among us. Where did he learn all these things?” And they were deeply offended and refused to believe in him.

Then Jesus told them, “A prophet is honored everywhere except in his own hometown and among his own family.” And so he did only a few miracles there because of their unbelief.

— Matthew 13:54-58

TGIF people!

Senior Theater Seats

Contributed by Rick of Chino Hills, CA

An old man lay awkwardly sprawled across three entire seats in the movie theater.

When the usher came by and noticed this, he whispered to the old man, “Sorry sir, but you’re only allowed one seat.”

The old man didn’t budge. The usher became more impatient.

“Sir, if you don’t get up from there I’m going to have to call the manager.”

Once again, the old man just muttered and did nothing.

The usher marched briskly back up the aisle, and in a moment returned with the manager.

Together the two of them tried repeatedly to move the old disheveled man, but with no success.

Finally they summoned the police.

The officer surveyed the situation briefly, then asked, “All right, buddy, what’s your name?”

“Fred,” the old man moaned.

“Where you from, Fred?” asked the police officer.

With a terrible strain in his voice, and without moving, Fred replied;
“The balcony.”

TGIF Videos

Parting Shot

Thanks to Don of Kelowna, B.C. who provided this photo

The post Theater Seats for a Senior appeared first on Traveling Archive.

My father died while I was roaming through Northern Italy. He was 52. He passed away peacefully in his sleep in his home in Florida. I found out about it at the American Express office in Istanbul three weeks later when I opened a letter my brother sent me.

This was 1970. There were no computers, no smartphones, no Skype. I knew my dad was sick. My brother promised to write to me if our dad got worse. So I checked designated American Express mail drops in cities throughout my journey, looking for mail addressed to me, hoping not to find a letter.

My dad had been ill for nearly 7 years with an incurable disease so rare that only 100 cases were known to exist. When he was first diagnosed they gave him 6 months to live, maybe a year. He agreed to become a lab animal, let them experiment on him with new drugs and treatments. He was in and out of the hospital. He wasn’t getting better but he didn’t get worse. His pain was under control. But his days were still numbered.

That summer before my senior year at UCLA I agonized over taking my long-planned trip across Europe. It was the height of the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, and all the social tumult of that time. Even though I was energetically caught up in all of that, none of it concerned me in this moment. It was leaving my dad all summer when he relied on me.

I stayed with him in the summers during college, worked in his radio business, and took care of him as best I could. My parents were divorced several years earlier so my dad and I had lived apart for some time. He had nurses, and my new step-mother, and my brother and sister within reasonable distance. But my dad and I had a different bond, a deeper one.

I didn’t fully understand our bond until after he died. It only slowly dawned on me in the months that followed when I didn’t have him to talk to, to joke with and to share with – to love. I remembered how he would stay up late at night to listen to me run my nighttime music show on his radio station in Orlando. The next morning after I got some sleep he would critique my performance while we ate cereal together.

He applauded my good grades in school, cheered my athletic success, and enjoyed my creative endeavors. He taught me the radio business. When he told me he would pay for me to get my private pilot’s license I was thrilled. He had been a flight instructor during World War Two. I don’t know if I ever truly thanked him for any of this.

When I was in high school, even with his painful illness, he would drive the 90 miles up to Gainesville on a weekend to watch me play baseball. He thought they should put me in the outfield more often, not just first base. “You can catch the ball!” he’d exclaim. “But you also have a great arm.” He didn’t mind I batted near the bottom of the order.

Early in June my plane tickets were set and I was a week away from embarking on my journey. I still wasn’t sure. My dad encouraged me to go, said he’d be fine, told me this was my once in a lifetime chance to have this adventure. I thought he was only being brave, and selfless. I turned to friends and family. They too urged me to go. They said, “If you cancel the trip and stay here he’ll think you did it because of him and he’ll be miserable.” I figured they were right. So I boarded the plane on schedule and landed in Brussels with my backpack, passport and a bunch of Travelers Checks.

A few years earlier my dad tried to talk me out of going to college in California. He said he thought I’d feel out of place, that I should stay in Florida among friends and familiar surroundings. I already knew the ropes here, he reminded me. I realized later his pitch was because he was going to miss me. At that time I didn’t know how sick he really was. He didn’t tell me. He chose not to influence my decision that way.

Following that summer of 1970 I never celebrated another birthday with my dad, or another Christmas. But every Father’s Day I have my bowl of cereal and I tell him how my year went.

I don’t remember how often I thanked my dad, or how often I told him I loved him. All I know is it wasn’t nearly enough.

The post Remembering My Dad appeared first on Traveling Archive.