Monday, June 11, 2012
by Michael Hofferber. Copyright © 2006. All rights reserved.
However old I age or whatever career goals I pursue, it seems, I still remain a little boy watching for Daddy to come home.
My father was a working man of the 1960s, responsible for the gross household income, and for him that meant days and weeks on the road selling heating and air conditioning equipment. His father and his father's father were raised on family farms and orchards where the day's work ended at a communal dinner table. He was the first father in his line to take his dinners alone at motel restaurants in far-off cities while his family ate at home before his empty chair.
No one told us this was unusual. No one warned us how we would miss him then, and for years and years to come.
Mom was essential to my physical well-being, fixing meals and attending wounds, but Dad's attention had a direct line to my soul. Mom's praise and encouragement were important, but Dad's approval was a gift of grace.
Continued at... Ascent of Man
Artwork: Time by Jean Monti