I am blessed with a healthy 90-year-old dad, a widower who lives independently and wants for nothing.
I was 9 years old when my marmalade-striped cat Frisky was struck by a car. I do not remember whether it was my mom or my older sister who found her, still alive by the side of the road in front of our house. But whoever it was protected me from seeing her.
Who are “They”?
Summers are nothing short of magical. Days are longer and warmer, and – at least for a kid without a job – every one is a Saturday. The sky has more stars in it. The bushes down the street are ripe with blackberries. Clothes are lighter, and skin is tanner.
Any girl who loves her father has a built-in litmus test for prospective suitors. The more awesome the dad, the harder a “young fella,” as Grandma says, must strive for her heart.
It’s all a matter of perspective. I must have been 12 or 13 when I began to be aware of the choices to be made, the horizons to be contemplated. The physical landscape didn’t offer much. I grew up among rolling hills, absent mountains, narrow valleys and many swamps. It seemed impossible to get high enough to see for miles. No big vistas or views. At least, not from my house.
This past Memorial Day weekend, we went on a family road trip. Our destination: Salt Lake City, Utah — an 865-mile trip to visit longtime friends Geoff and Missy.
M. "MORF" MORFORD
'I just love Tacoma" she exclaimed. This was many years ago, and I was even deeper than usual into my ambivalence regarding Tacoma.
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