Folks, it was early 1967 when my folks hatched a daring plan to rescue me from the clutches of Stan.

My folks were agonizing over my attraction to girls with uh loose morals let's just say.

Since I had already been accepted at the Y and since my sister and new hubby were already attending, they figured why not send me off to Provo to get me out of Lordsburg NM with all it's loosely moraled lovelies.

I dumbly went along with the plan as it was presented to me.

So on the 2nd of January I packed my bags and as I was boarding my sister's car for the journey north, my Dad out of the blue planted a full warm kiss on my very own lips.

He had NEVER kissed me once in all the time I could ever remember.

So off we went and I enrolled at Provo High and tried to fit in a strange new school.

No sooner was I there and beginning to understand the strange lingo and customs than we received word on the 10th of January that my father had been killed in a tractor roll-over.

After the funeral I never went back to Provo High.

Dunno if Dad knew I was still a virgin, but that didn't last too much longer. It was as if his leaving gave me license to finally do what he had suspected me of doing all along.

RIP, Pops. I <3 you too!

I always knew somehow that you really loved me even though you always had trouble showing me that you did.

Until that very final blessed moment, that is.

Loved reading this tribute to your dad. You always had a way with words.

This is beautiful, Shummy...

...Happy Father's Day to you...

My old man is getting up there, and every time he irritates me with something I read something like this and it helps me with my perspective.

Thank you for your kind words, dear internet friends....... two of whom also happen to be real life friends . . . which makes your words all the sweeter.

to the top for me pop

Beautiful. Thank you for sharing this story.

I'm sorry, Shummy. That must have been really difficult. At least you were able to share love with one another.

I did it the reverse of you: My dad died, and then I moved in with my sibling and started to attend a new high school, hundreds of miles from my home. It was a lonely time for me and it took me a while to find my footing. Fortunately the kids at my new school were kind-hearted souls, and I ended up having a very good experience there.

Well we know Nephi was a bulshitter but I actually was born of goodly parents.

I felt for so many years that my childhood sucked simply because mormonism had sucked so much of my childhood from me.

It was only when I realized that my folks had their childhoods robbed in a like manner that I began to appreciate what I did have.

I actually had it a lot better in my youth due to my Pops moving away from Shumway AZ to NM, out among the real world which I would never have known of growing up in Snowflake stake.

That's what made my folks nervous about my morality ya see.

I would never face such pitfalls and peril to my soul in Shumway or in Provo now would I?

Yeah right Pop.

Anyhoo, thanks for the freedom you inadvertently managed to afford your ever loving son.

. . . . for my 'johnny-pop' riding pop.

Who loved his iron horses, particularly a Deere named John.

And who on the other hand hated 'boneheads', real living horseflesh.

Who could blame ya though having harnessed so many a mule and plowhorse, eh Dad?

Too bad yer steel pony is what finally did you in.

Forgive me folks but this has been quite a cathartic day or three.

You could say a Don Bagleyesque epoch even, with my own dad.

A day of reconcilement with the past.

A day that ended so sweetly with a steak supper served by my own son, Reginald Glenn, named for both me and my Pops.

I feel I know him.

Thanks Cheryl.

It's good to share my life with my exmo pals who get it.

Especially another real life acquaintance such as you.

I know you and I grew up in basically the same historical hysterical holy hatchery, did we not?

Enjoyed your story very much, Shummy. It reminded me of my farewell with my Dad but different still.

My father was diagnosed with colon cancer which had metastasized everywhere in his body soon after a happy celebration of my parents' 50th wedding anniversary.

I lived 1,100 miles away and my sister even further yet on the opposite coast, but we managed four trips timed just right over the course of six months that he had yet to live.

The most affection my father ever exhibited towards his three sons was a firm handshake. After the diagnosis my brothers and I were thrown for a loop with his kissy-pooing—at first just hugs and a kiss on the cheek, but then soon on the lips. I relish that affection to this day which has been 22 years since.

My Dad was kind of embarrassed by his affection but he couldn't help it. But he did say that if Mom can do it, why couldn't he?

My father being Irish/English had little tolerance for people who came from south of the Alps, specifically Eye-talians. Don't know why but we all have our idiosyncrasies, right? At the time there was an intensive genealogy search going on with his side of the family. The results were published in a nice fine-tome book. Wouldn't you know, we started out in Italy and in the 1600s our family was migrating north.

At the airport my Dad managed to come along sick as he was to see me off—I had to go to work. Again, there was a final lip lock. I decided to give him a tease with his affection that is so typical of southern Europeans—"It must be the Italian in you, Dad." His laugh was longer than Desi and Lucy's tango dance while she had a blouse full of eggs.

It was the last time I heard my Dad laugh and I wouldn't trade this good-bye for anything in the world.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 06/22/2015 04:55PM by cl2.

Roger that! ^^

That just reminded me of the old Movietone newsreel I saw back in the 50s (the youtube of it's day kiddos) which caught on camera the way Her Majesty greeted her young son Prince Charles back home from India as a lad.

She actually shook his bloody hand as he kept a stiff upper unkissed lip as he saluted in reply!

Fer crissakes.

Now we shan't have to guess why I wouldn't swap my memories for the King's damn bloody crown, as Peachy Carnahan said to Danny in my favrite flick ever... Kipling's 'the man who would be king'.