My Dad

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Posted by: " * Vinay * " vinayspandey

Wed Jul 30, 2008 3:56 am (PDT)

 

- Story With Moral - Worth Reading -

 

My Dad

 

Author: Unknown

 

For 52 years, my father got up every morning at 5:30 a.m., except

Sunday, and went to work. For 52 years, he returned home at 5:30 p.m.,

like clockwork, for dinner at 6:00 p.m. I never remember my father

taking a " night out with the boys, " nor do I ever recall my father

drinking. All he asked from me as his daughter was to hold his hammer

while he repaired something, just so we could have some time to talk

to each other.

 

I never saw my father home from work ill, nor did I ever see my father

lay down to take a nap. He had no hobbies, other than taking care of

his family.

 

For 22 years, since I left home for college, my father called me every

Sunday at 9:00 a.m. He was always interested in my life, how my family

was doing, and I never once heard him lament about his lot in life.

The calls even came when he and my mother were in Australia, England

or Florida.

 

Nine years ago when I purchased my first house, my father, 67 years

old, spent eight hours a day for three days in the 80-degree Kansas

heat, painting my house. He would not allow me to pay someone to have

it done. All he asked, was a glass of iced tea, and that a hold a

paintbrush for him and talk to him. However, I was too busy, I had a

law practice to run, and I could not take the time to hold the

paintbrush, or talk to my father.

 

Five years ago, at age 71 again in the sweltering Kansas heat, my

father spent five hours putting together a swing set for my daughter.

Again, all he asked was that I get him a glass of iced tea, and talk

to him. But again, I had laundry to do, and the house to clean.

 

Four years ago, my father drove all the way from Denver to Topeka,

with an eight foot Colorado Blue Spruce in his trunk, so that my

husband and I could have a part of Colorado growing on our land. I was

preparing for a trip that weekend and could not spend much time

tallied to Daddy.

 

The morning or Sunday, January 16, 1996, my father telephoned me as

usual, this time from my sister's home in Florida. We conversed about

the tree he had brought me, " Fat Albert, " but that morning he called

the tree " Fat Oscar, " and he had seemed to have forgotten some things

we had discussed the previous week. I had to get to church, and I cut

the conversation short.

 

The call came at 4:40 p.m., that day; my father was in the hospital in

Florida with an aneurysm. I got on an airplane immediately, and on the

way, I thought of all the times I had not taken the time to talk to my

father. I realized that I had no idea who he was or what his deepest

thoughts were. I vowed that when I arrived, I would make up for the

lost time, and have a nice long talk with him and really get to know him.

 

I arrived in Florida at 1 a.m., my father had passed away at 9:12 p.m.

This time he did not have time to talk, or time to wait for me.

 

In the years since his death, I have learned much about my father, and

even more about myself. As a father, he never asked me for anything

but my time, now he as all my attention, every single day.