Plop Off My High-Horse
Clouds in View on Brevot Lake While driving back through Canada from visiting my daughter and her family last week, I discovered something about myself. The realization came from thoughts of Dad. I thought about summer and it’s inevitable ending. How much shorter it seems when the end days of August come along. I thought about my childhood summers raised by the water. We always had a sailboat and we all swam. We had summer jobs when we became an age to get one. After some reminiscing, I had thoughts of my dad’s summers, balancing work and play and realized I was picturing a story about him. My story. I watched him put much of his efforts and energies for nine or ten months of the year into planning for a few select days he and mom could sail in the summer. All the chart reading, knot tying and boat upkeep for the possibility of sailing in the short two months of summer (if that) up north. It might even be true sometimes to say two good days of sailing. Why was he so engrossed? He wasn’