Father's Day has me thinking about all the dads I love. On the way home from Arkansas, the boys were asking me about my dad's father, Papaw. He passed away when my oldest nephew, then his only great-grandchild, was a baby, before the time of the Brothers H. He was quite a character - a crusty old WWII veteran who mellowed considerably with old age, at least where his only granddaughter was concerned. This picture was taken at the hospital when my oldest son was born and died. I wish he had lived to see my other children and nieces and nephews. He would have thirteen great-grandchildren now - most of them very young. It's blessed chaos when we're all together. In Papaw's younger days, it would have pushed him over the edge. In his old age, I think he would have reveled in all these wild boys and girls, at least in small doses.
When he is introduced, Jacob's opening line is invariably, "I'm four and three quarters, you know." On our drive home he said, " I wish I could know Papaw so I could tell him how old I am." Me too, buddy, me too.