This is an excerpt from the book that I’m working on right now – the project that I’ll be bringing to the Women At Woodstock Writers Retreat this October. I thought I’d share it on the eve of my father’s 95th birthday.
I made a sandwich for him that morning, on the sly, before I left.Natural peanut butter, because that’s the Only Real Peanut Butter. On whole wheat, because that’s the Only Real Bread.Wrapped it in plastic wrap and put it on a plate on the counter.He’d find it, because Lunchtime Is At 11:30, and when he went into the kitchen there it would be, sitting in plain view.Surprise.A couple nights later he called me on some ruse – to make sure I knew about sending 1099s to my independent contractors or something – something he knew damn well I did know. Geez, I’ve run my own business for what, twenty-five years?“I found the sandwich,” he said. “but next time, make it some real food, would ya? A man could starve.”“Next time, it’ll be liverwurst and limburger cheese,” I said.That cracked him up.That was last night at 3 am. All of it. It never happened. Dad died 10 years ago.I hope that after I’m gone, my daughters will have a laugh with me now and then.