August 2
A beautiful perfect half-moon as I walked a few minutes ago, and the faint fragrance of wild roses, remembrances of long ago summer evenings. Tonight it's cool, even a little breezy, but I'm still thinking of a red-hot evening two weeks ago, when I got to listen to Katherine Grace Bond read from her new book, Considering Flight at the Duvall Speakeasy Cafe. I don't think anyone in the packed room escaped without a heart-touch, as Katherine laid bare her own heart. The father-daughter relationship! So poignant, so painful, so capable of joy. That night we all went away pondering our own family relationships, aching perhaps, for what might have been--but also stirred by Katherine's readings to the hope of healing, to the good that is there even in the imperfect.
And tonight, I'm thinking of my own Dad, of family trips to Mt. Lemmon, singing our silly songs, of his nightly bowl of popcorn before bed (and sneaking us a napkinful for under our pillow, when he came in to say goodnight, even though we'd already brushed our teeth.) My dad was impetuous and loving, quick to anger, quick to forgive, always believing in us. He was so proud of me when my first book (Coming Home) was published. "I always turn it face out when I see it in the bookstore," he told me. "But I'm afraid if I tell the owner you're my daughter, she'll think I'm the alcoholic in the book." (He wasn't.)
Thanks to Katherine Grace Bond and her reading, I'm remembering a lot about my Dad this couple of weeks. He wasn't perfect, but he was close to it, in my eyes. The dads in my stories usually come through in the end. And even when they don't, there's a half-cupful of wisdom to be gained.
Hooray for half-moons, as well as full! Hooray for the half cupful of love as well as the full
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