Two stories each about two men who were and are wonderful fathers.

Apparently, and ths all occurred prior to my memory banks really kicking in, I'd hear my father wake up early (at 4 am usually) and walk down the hallway to the kitchen table where he did most of his composing. I would toddle down the hall and sit with him at the table and he'd let me sip his "brown coffee" and I'd fall asleep in my chair and he'd carry me back to bed.

My father had a chair, a black leather covered (was it leather or naugahyde, I'm not sure) barcalounger type chair. He'd sit in it after dinner and eat ice cream. More often than not, I'd sit in it with him. I remember watching many episodes of Hogan's Heroes in that chair, with one of my legs draped over his and us sharing a bowl of chocolate chip. He'd say, more often than not, "Either you have to stop growing, or I'm going to need to get a bigger chair."

We had just had Owen, we were sleep deprived in the hospital, dehydrated from crying and panting and breathing during labor, and we both lay in the hospital bed with Owen who was so tiny. It's impossible how tiny he was. We couldn't figure out what to sing to him and my husband started singing Patriotic July 4th type songs. The moment was surreal and alive in that way that those ridiculous moments are, and we just sang and sang and I'm sure, wondered what the hell was about to happen.

My guy had just traveled to Poland. Poland. I'm sure the trip had taken a million hours and many dollars and he was jet lagged and sound asleep in an icy hotel in the outskirts of some tiny town where no one spoke English. I had to call him to tell him that Owen had been in a very bad car accident. The sound in his voice when he heard it (even though Owen was ok)...well I can't explain it well, only to say that if he could have sprouted wings he'd have flown home in an instant, come hell, highwater or air traffic control.

There are more stories. Lots more. But those will do for now.


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