My father was not what I would call father.  He was Daddy.  Always!  Until the day he died…very suddenly, an extremely long-way from home.  It was a heart attack.  Leaving Momma stranded way down south.

Now that is NOT something he would have chosen to do. Leave Momma alone to deal with the biggest disaster of her life, but sometimes we don’t get to choose. He was 72 when he died.

(Thankfully they were visiting our son and then daughter-in-law; so Momma really wasn’t without help.)

It’s been years now (eighteen to be exact), still I feel him hovering over me…just over my shoulder, I catch a glimpse of him now and again, and once felt his hand on my back.

I often wonder what his life would have been like if his Daddy hadn’t died very young. (Pete died in 1936—Daddy was just nine (going on ten) years old at the time of his Dad’s death)

Grandma remarried and lived a very long and happy life with her second husband.  He brought, into their union three sons; his wife died right after the birth of the youngest boy.

Grandma brought Daddy.

Through the years the ‘family’ photos show the struggle of my Dad’s ‘never feeling like he belonged’.

I I think he never really felt like he ‘fit’ until he met and married Momma. Who came with her all her southern born aunts and uncles.  It was at this time he learned to hug and kiss and be swallowed up into a warm, gregarious, fun, outgoing family.

For which I am eternally grateful!

I will always long for them, Momma died just months after Daddy…she missed him too much.

But one thing I know…he really is always with me…I can feel him there—-just beyond my shoulder.

It is a blessing I cherish!

From my world to your heart,

Linda