Several weeks ago, I celebrated my sixty-ninth birthday. I know that does not make me unique, but it did cause me to reflect on my childhood. There were things we did as a family that became traditions for us.
I fondly remember every Saturday evening my dad and I would watch professional boxing on television. Of course, we could not watch such an event without refreshments! EVERY Saturday evening we made root-beer floats. And it had to be Dad’s Rootbeer. No substitutes, please.
To be honest, I really didn’t like watching boxing and I still don’t. The rootbeer floats were good, but it think looking back what made it so special was just Dad and me spending time together.
An elderly man was rummaging through his attic when came across a box that contained two journals, one was his and the other was his son’s.
As he opened his journal, the old man’s eyes fell upon an inscription that stood out because it was so brief in comparison to other days. In his own neat handwriting were these words:
Wasted the whole day fishing with Jimmy. Didn’t catch a thing.
With a deep sigh and a shaking hand, he took Jimmy’s journal and found the boy’s entry for the same day, June 4. Large scrawling letters, pressed deeply into the paper, read: Went fishing with my Dad. Best day of my life.