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When Buying A Father’s Day Present Equals Placing Flowers By His Gravestone

June 5, 2014
Writing 101

Writing 101

Today write about a loss. The twist: make this the first post in a three-post series.

Father’s Day is looming on the horizon and all the hype has gotten me depressed. My father is dead. While other children are rushing around buying cheesy ties, tickets to sporting events, grilling accessories, new tools, or whatever I’ll be purchasing flowers to place by my dad’s gravestone. I say gravestone not body, because he was cremated and we scattered his ashes.

I’ll be looking for a nice bunch of artificial yellow roses, his favorite flower. There was a huge old-fashioned yellow rose-bush on my grandparents property. It was always in full bloom this time of year. They were very thorny, but smelled so sweet. Dad loved them.


One of his favorite songs was “Yellow Rose Of Texas”.

There’s a yellow rose in Texas, That I’m going to see,
Nobody else could miss her, Not half as much as me,
She cried so when I left her It like to broke my heart And if I ever find her, We never more will part.
She’s the sweetest little rosebud That Texas ever knew Her eyes are bright as diamonds, They sparkle like the dew; You may talk about your Clementine, And sing of Rosalee, But the YELLOW ROSE OF TEXAS Is the only girl for me.

Dad was a simple man, an agnostic, a teetotaler, a handyman, a dairy farmer who loved his family and the farm. He graduated from his local high school but couldn’t afford college. He didn’t serve in the Vietnam war, but both of his younger brothers did. He was the person in the family who could remember what date a memorable event occurred. He always knew which way was north. He was calm in a crisis and always there in an emergency. When I got tired of reading the family’s collection of Westerns as a fourteen-year old he introduced me to the world of Fantasy and Science Fiction by letting me borrow his Andre Norton books. Even now I’ll read a new book and think “Dad would have loved this!”, then remember he’s not around to share it with. I’ve had to blot the tears from my eyes as I wrote this post. It’s been twenty-five years yet there is still a hole in my life. The pain has faded but still lingers. Love you Daddy. Emily ***************************************************************************************************** In response to Writing 101, Day Four: The Serial Killer

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