From the earliest childhood, until I was too busy with ballet, there were always long driving vacations in the summer. We saw the U.S., visiting every state but the west coast, at a time when gas was still 25 cents a gallon, and national parks were still innocent and relatively untouched.
We spent long stretches in Maine, visited Key West, Florida where Marion was born, saw the breath-taking wonder of the Grand Canyon, and so much more.
I became a pebble-pup (not quite a full-fledged rock-hound) due to these trips. I learned to see the place where I stand—the earth, the plants, the creatures, the sky.
We would make s'mores and campfire stew (also known as "slumgullion"). And then we sang. Folks would wander over from neighboring campsites to enjoy the concert.
This was when my father was happy. It's like the closing lines of his book Me 'N Red, "...but when he was sober, gee he was a swell guy." One could alter the language slightly "When he was away from politics, the ghosts of his past, and the pressures of a success-driven mind, gee he was a wonderful dad."
And I have discovered that loved him a lot.
YOU ARE READING
Gifts From My Dad
Non-FictionA tribute to my father, Carroll Raymond Bryan, Jr. This bit of writing is my gift to my father who passed from this world three weeks ago. It is about art and love, and anything that is not up to that measure will not be found here. Author, artist...
