July 1, 2015, Prescott-As is always the case when I return from a wandering, there were lots of base camp tasks in front of me. Not the least of these was tracking down my pile of mail, so as to get two pay checks deposited and thus stave off NSF. I have had a good track record, since recovering from the Great Recession, and aim to keep it that way.
Finance has neither been my strong suit, nor has it been an Achilles heel. The best way, for me, to go about life is with cash and check. Work will be quite constant this coming academic year, and that’s a great thing.
My yard project was pretty much done for me, by the landlord himself, while I was away. He is a trouper: That work was done during the period that Prescott, and much of the continent, endured 100+ ,for nearly three weeks. I will keep at the process of building raised beds, so that next year, seeds may be planted. t least the onion bulbs will go in shortly, and we’ll see how they do.
July will be prime time for volunteering, I can sense, so I will show up at things like the Fourth of July Parade, and the Red Cross float, the Hope Fest kickoff event on July 18, and whatever things Slow Food and Yavapai County Angels have going. Then, too, there would be any disasters that happen, but we will let sleeping dogs lie, for now.
The travels? Yes, I have gotten to be the Poster Child for wanderlust. As another friend recently remarked, this seems to be a Sagittarrian thing. This Sagittarian will be more inclined to short, focused bursts, for the next five years at least. There may be a faith-based trip down to Chile, late in 2016, but my primary focus is on family and friends: My son, and a couple of good friends, in southern California; my paternal uncle, in Colorado; my soon-to-be hexagenarian brother, in Atlanta; and the bulk of my biological family, at Christmas-time, in New England. I want to do more day trips from here, that could draw in a good friend. Finally, there are my long-neglected Native American friends in northeast Arizona, and at least one weekend in early August will see me up there.
This day finds me in a very relaxed frame of mind, ready for whatever life sends. It’s just too hot and languid to be otherwise.
June 20, 2015, Victoria-I hit the ground running this morning, though it’d have been easy to laze the day away in Anacortes. A three-hour ride across the straits lay Sidney, BC, a harbour town northeast of Victoria. British Columbia’s capital was participating fully in Canada’s National Aboriginal Day. While this was officially on Sunday, the festivities were going on all weekend, on the grounds of the Royal British Columbia Museum, a magnificent facility, which would have taken up the entire weekend, in and of itself.
I zipped to the ferry station, west of Anacortes, and parked carefully in the day lot, as I would be returning at night.The wharfside featured some competitors for breakfast.
The cormorants far outnumbered the lone gull, however, so he followed us into the water for a while. Our first stop was Friday Harbor, a delightful little town I might like to explore further, some day.
The same is true of Sidney, the small port where we landed. A gruff Customs Officer gave me the third degree, then sent me happily along, to the port’s charming downtown.
My first act was to check Eastview Park, and its sculptures.
The artwork continued, downtown.
I spent about 20 minutes and C$ 10, at Haunted Bookshop, said to be Vancouver Island’s oldest.
The proprietor was kind enough to give me change for the bus to Victoria. I took a double decker, going to the top tier, and engaging in conversation with a Korean student, resident in Vancouver, who was also here on holiday. He was primarily interested in shopping, and in going to Butchart Gardens, which I had already consigned to a future visit. They are another site that is worth a full day, in and of themselves.
Upon arriving at the potlatch site, I took several minutes to wander among the totem poles of the Royal Museum grounds
I also took in the Helmcken House, home to Dr. John Helmcken and his family, in the late 19th Century. Dr. Helmcken persuaded fellow British Columbians to join the Dominion of Canada.
This carillon, on the north side of the museum grounds, adds a more contemporary touch to the mix.
Once into the Potlatch area, we were set straight as to where we were. The Songhees and Esquimault (Es-KWY-mawl) are working commonly, to preserve Aboriginal fishing rights and guard the health of the waterways.
I was taught, from an early age, that listening and observing were especially important, when in the presence of Native elders. Of course, these skills certainly lend themselves well to getting along in ANY company. I watch a seal-hunting dance, by some of the Songhees people, after having enjoyed a bowl of Vancouver Island-stye clam chowder and fry bread, an Aboriginal staple, across the continent.
While waiting for the walking tour guide, I took in the British Columbia Parliament Building and the Empress Hotel, diagonal from Parliament. The neo-Baroque British Columbia Parliament Buildings were completed by Francis Rattenbury, in 1898.
The Fairmont Empress Hotel, completed in 1908, was the western showpiece of the Canadian Pacific Railroad’s hotel line. It certainly competes with the grand hotels of Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver, in terms of ornateness.
I’m sure Queen Victoria would have approved of the city named in her honour.
Our walking tour started, just after I had paid homage to the Queen. We began at the old harbour, which guide Mark Albany, of the Songhees Nation, explained was traditional Aboriginal fishing ground, though the harbour was largely filled in by the British, for the sake of commerce. It is about half the size of its pre-British days.
Mark was an incisive, fast-moving human encyclopedia.
Human hand and arm sculptures appear at five points, in downtown Victoria. They honour the industry of all workers, who built the city, into a vibrant port.
These Romanesque supports for the downtown evoked Rouen and Vannes, France, for me.
Aboriginal kitchen middens have been preserved, at the water’s edge, by the City Council, as an archaeological zone.
Mark took us in and around the remnants of the Bastion, the original British seaside fortress, meant to defend against the Spanish and Russians, as well as against any Aboriginals who might have had depredatory intentions.
As you might guess, part of this building is now used as a wine cellar.
We looked around the old commercial district, where Mark noted the contrast between the British division of property into parcels, and the Aboriginal notion of land being for common use.
The original cobbles of Victoria’s streets were built of Douglas fir.
As this was soon found to be an unwieldy practice, the British turned to stone and pressed glass pavers for their streets.
I had to bid farewell to Mark,the group (who were mostly Victoria residents, just learning about their city from a First Nations perspective) and to fair Victoria. As the ferry back to Anacortes passed into the strait, a pair of orcas were engaged in feeding.
It wasn’t quite sunset, but the red sails were out.
The trimast also was out, seeking cetaceans for the evening.
I was favourably impressed with Victoria, and will set aside more time, strictly for Vancouver Island, on some future jaunt. For now, though, thought must be given to other areas of the Northwest, before I head southward to my base.
June 30, 2015, Prescott- This is where I resume the practice of writing two posts a day. Morning will feature a reminiscence of the day just prior. Evening will bring a post related to a just-completed journey to the Pacific Northwest and southeast Alaska. Thus, you will note a juxtaposition in the “Miles” referenced.
On June 30, 2013, I was returning from a visit to the Navajo community of Dinebito and the Hopi village of Polacca. Whilst driving through Leupp, on the way back, a bulletin came on KNAU. 19 wildland fire fighters had been killed in a windblown firestorm, at Yarnell, west of Prescott. The team had been based in Prescott itself. The communities of Yarnell and Peeples Valley had been evacuated, thus giving me an exact message as to what had to be done next. I went directly to the Red Cross shelter, at Yavapai College, and served, as needed, there for the next four days, while working around a family event in San Diego.
All of that is now a blur, but the suffering of the “Hot Shot’s” families, ever since, is all too real. Their day-to-day recovery has been undermined by the crusty attitude of many here in the area- “The men knew what they were getting into, when they signed on. Don’t give the survivors a dime more than they’re due already.” Fortunately, enough of us Prescottonians can look beyond that benighted view of life, so that the surviving families have prevailed, in the courts and in every day life. A foundation has been established, to handle the most pressing long-term needs.
There is a tradition, in the firehouse, that a rookie does not step on the set of black tiles that lines the middle of the floor, until he or she has been through a major blaze. The tiles in Station 17, where the Hot Shots were housed, are now enshrined. No one steps on them.
This leads me to thinking. Years ago, my father-in-law took me aside and said, “You have had some fine experiences as a couple, already. You have not, though,as yet, been through more than a minor bump or two. That was in 1985. Since then, everyone who knows me, has witnessed the real rough patches. The years from 2003-2011 were enough for any person’s life education. I have stepped on the black tiles of my own life house. It is a humbling place, and not often a lonely one- thanks to those who have stayed as true friends.
As I stood this afternoon, on the Court House lawn, listening to the Fire Marshall offer words of respect for the fallen, the thought came that, while there is no guarantee that a fresh calamity won’t come our way, tomorrow, the sense of community that transcends even the differences of opinion,which sometime threaten to tear us asunder, will be what lifts us in a healing and forward-moving direction. Yes, love is the secret.
June 19, 2015, Anacortes- The ferry brought me in to Bellingham, right on schedule. Taking my sick camera to a Best Buy, in nearby Burlington, for shipment off to a fix-it shop, was my first priority. While waiting for the store to open, I got some coffee and a muffin, and saw the horror we had missed, whilst aboard ship: The Charleston Massacre. I was numb, for a few minutes, then throw-the-book-at-him angry, that this should continue to happen, in the middle of 2015- the midmost heart of the second decade of the 21st Century. Thought then took over- I had just been in a fairly isolated environment, with little interaction with anyone, for nearly two days. There were, however, people of all “racial” groups aboard, and the crew was well-blended. This reflects the Alaska of 2015, which ought to, in turn, reflect the America of this same year. Yet, hearts don’t change. People hold on to the most quotidian of symbols- a gun, an outmoded flag, as if these guarantee some sort of shield from a malevolent external force. Perhaps, in a way, they do. Does that mean, however, that these symbols may be used as malevolent forces of their own- and against people who have been NOTHING BUT LOVING to the individual who now attacks them?
I had to carry on, though, and did, choosing the comforting and picturesque ferry port of Anacortes, as a place to settle for one day, and just walk about, after a comforting nap at Holiday Motel. It’s run by two of the nicest hoteliers I have encountered in the “lower 48”, though I have to say that, how I perceive people is usually how they end up being.
Anacortes has an old church, which is now for sale. Other denominations seem to be thriving, but not this Congregationalist parish. Perhaps it moved over to the west side of town.
I wandered around the east harbour, where there is a skate park, a yacht club and several container vessels. East Anacortes seems to be the more industrial part of town.
Street art seems to be everywhere, these days, and Anacortes has its fair share. There is a Music Festival coming here soon.
I visited the Performing Arts Center’s grounds, after hours, and was overjoyed to see its name.
The venue is to be very active, tomorrow. I will, however, be in Victoria, BC, for a National Aboriginal Canadians Day festival. Still, this is another very comforting thing about this little port.
Hearts come in all shapes and sizes.
They can also be complex.
I wonder if Juliet, or Rapunzel, would favour such a balcony?
Perhaps, if her suitor were to proffer such a mix of flowers as this.
Wandering, reluctantly, away from Hearts of Anacortes, I found a gem of a different sort. The city includes a waterfront park, at the north harbour. The wharves are largely given over to disuse, and are therefore welcoming to some cormorants.
Could this pass for a dog, or an alligator? Driftwood does inspire flights of fancy.
Spying a fossil shell was a treat.
It appears Nature has her own pictographs.
There were a few other intrepid souls out, enjoying this special park. It is a good mark for a community, when it takes the best of what is placed in its midst. If I ever felt the need to leave Prescott, for another base, Anacortes would be on my short list.
June 18, 2015, Off Campbell River, BC- On a full day of being ferried through the Canadian section of the Inland Passage, the focus turned inward. Fleeting glimpses of places like Bella Bella were more a diversion than the main attraction, on this misty day.
Three central issues in my life flowed along today: Worthiness, safety and perseverance.
In my late teens and in my twenties, I was a train wreck. I was taught social skills in my childhood, but never quite internalized them, until about age 30. The less said about all my missteps and accidents in that decade or so, the better. Things went along well, in my thirties and forties, the prime years of our marriage, and of careers. My fifties were another rough patch, yet there I did learn perseverance, and that it is the natural outgrowth of commitment. My family and friends have stuck with me, through all of it, and each of these years passed before me, in reflection, during the course of this day.
I have had a hard row, in feeling safe, in certain places, during the course of my life. I felt alternately safe and threatened, growing up in my hometown, but learning to face adversaries is an all-too-common part of life. I certainly feel secure, when in Saugus, now, of course. So, too, has the list of places where I feel at ease and free from harm, been growing, over the past few years.
Maybe that’s the real reason why I have been in so many places, since 2011. I have always wandered, as has been mentioned before, but perhaps the only way to know for sure as to security, is to go to a place, follow the normal protocols of safety and courtesy expected there, and prove to myself that all is okay.
Now, on my way back to the more contiguous reaches of North America, I am reminded of perseverance. There is much ahead, in Prescott and vicinity, across Arizona, and around the southwest quadrant of the United States, over the next many months. Family events will take me away, for a few days here and there, but the main focus will be the life of community.
So, as I read “Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Book Store”, and “Crota”, my mind considered the sacrifices made by the protagonists of both stories, the triumph over almost insurmountable challenges, and the three-dimensional nature of the antagonists. My mind considered what I had overcome, when I had been a protagonist of sorts, and when I have been cast as the antagonist in an event- which has happened, more to my chagrin than I sometimes care to think. Nothing beyond the mist is as foggy, or as clearcut, as we sometimes like to think.
Many things go on, like the lives of whales, largely beneath the surface.
Then, the truth surfaces, and distant realities also have to be considered, even as we marvel at the sight closest to our eyes.
I started to refer to the town visible from our port as “Port Hardy”. A gentleman who is more seasoned on these cruises calmly stated the town was Campbell River, and that he had camped there in his RV, on a few occasions.
Oh, the joy, and humility, of seeing illusions evaporate. I placed the freshly-completed copy of “Crota” back in the Purser’s library, and donated “Mr. Penumbra” to that collection. It will appeal to at least a couple of inquiring minds among the ship’s crew. In the morning, I would see the sight of Fairhaven, the ferry port at Bellingham, WA. It is time for filling in the gaps, of my map of the Evergreen State.
June 17, 2015, Ketchikan- I was fortunate today, to have the hostel agree, European-style, to hold my bags until it was near time for my ride to the ferry terminal. The ten-day Alaskan experience was coming to a close. I have enjoyed a fairly good taste of “Southeast”, and this last day on land, in Ketchikan, was no exception. I had breakfast in two different venues: A street stall, across from the Cruise Ship docks, which had fairly good muffins and coffee.,and in Sweet Mermaids, where the steel cut oatmeal and fresh berries were accompanied by an hour of WiFi.
When I was first walking around the waterfront, this morning, a man called out- “You, from Arizona! How do you like Southeast?” Hmmm, do Arizonans stick out? Of course, I told him I thought the region was exquisite and that I was having a great time. Turns out, he is from Scottsdale, and knew the Methodist pastor, who is from Tucson. Even in a busy tourist venue like Ketchikan, word gets around fast.
This is the street where the stall is located.
I spent some time walking along and observing the fisherfolk. This craft was in the channel, just off Saxman.
Saxman, two miles south of downtown Ketchikan, is a Tlingit village, named for a great local teacher, who died in the line of service to his community.
There are several totem poles, both honourific and modern, which comprise a public park. Tourists wishing to visit the ceremonial hall and carving studio, must pay $ 5 per person, cash only. The outside, however, is free of charge. I bought a hand-made rattle, from the Village Store, and will use it at a Drum Circle which some friends back in AZ have, every month.
As you can see, many of the totem poles are well-maintained by their clan moieties.
Frogs are seen as protectors and sentinels of the water.
The guardian totems here are properly greeting the visitors.
Here is a view of the totem field.
Abe Lincoln stands in exile, so situated because of his treatment of the Lakota Sioux, to which the Tlingit and Haida people take great umbrage.
This is the exterior of the Ceremonial Hall, where drumming and singing take place.
This is the taxi driver’s pride and joy.
Street signs are in English and Tlingit. The Tlingit language is offered in public schools, throughout southeast Alaska, and in coastal British Columbia.
Well, after this visit and a lunch at Polar Treats, downtown, it was time for me to head to the ferry. My Ketchikan friend, Ms. Chapman, took me to the terminal, and I bid a fond farewell to my new friends and communities of this magical set of peninsulas and islands.
The people who work the ship are also embedded in my heart. After two days together, on the way up, several of the crew somehow remembered me, when I showed up again for meals and around the ship.
A couple of orcas were off the port side of the ship, as we left U.S. waters.
Green Island Light is manned by a Canadian family, who stay for a period of three months, then are succeeded by another family.
Cold and mist were the Alaskan farewell, as we headed into the waters off British Columbia. I will be back some day
June 16, 2015, Ketchikan- Actually, the flight from Sitka to Ketchikan lasts 49 minutes. My friend in Sitka gave me a ride over to Gutierrez International Airport (all border fields are “International”), and from there it was a puddle jump, though in a conventional aircraft that was going from Anchorage to Seattle.
The Ketchikan Airport is on Gravina Island, from which one must take a $6, five-minute ferry, to the city proper, then a $5 taxi ride to the Main Ferry Terminal, from whence a city bus will take the visitor downtown. I was told the Gravina Bridge was the Bridge to Nowhere that was never completed. It was not a big deal to me- just a half-hour or so, of local colour.
Ketchikan does have its share of colourful characters, at all points along the human spectrum. I found myself next to a tough fishwife who was loudly telling someone over the phone about how f*%#@ crazy her teen daughter was acting, as the girl was standing there, rolling her eyes. A few minutes later, I arrived at the Methodist Church, where the kindly pastor-emeritus welcomed me to their hostel and explained that only a church-approved Internet connection was available. Since that link was not working, I ended up going to two different places to WiFi, the next day. The hostel itself was adequate to my needs, otherwise.
My Ketchikan circuit began at the Tongass Visitors Center, a US Forest Service facility, which does an excellent job at explaining the various aspects of Tongass National Forest, its creatures, the surrounding sea and Man’s interaction with all of them. There is a complicated balance at play here: A thin soil layer, trees growing seemingly atop one another, the Native Alaskan understanding of land and sea use, European notions of said use and climate change- which is affecting the area far more dramatically than some other parts of the world, and people on Revillagigedo Island (pronounced by locals as it looks- Reh-vill-ah-GIG-eh-do), on which Ketchikan is located, are less skeptical of the changes than some are, elsewhere
.
Prior to a meeting with friends, later this evening, I made a circuit of the harbour, Ketchikan Totem Heritage Center, City Park, Married Man’s Trail and back to downtown. As you can see, the fishing part of Ketchikan is very lively.
Stensland Bayside is constantly being dredged and monitored, for seabed shifting, due to low-level seismic activity.
Thomas Basin, the older of Ketchikan’s marinas, is the favoured mooring for Tlingit fishermen.
Traditional totems adorn the wharf.
I walked up through the Ketchikan Native Community, to this thoughtfully-prepared facility.
Both indoor and outdoor totems adorn this lovely park. A docent does double-duty, between here and the Tongass Museum, a city property, not to be confused with the USFS Visitor Center.
As you might have guessed by now, totem poles come in all heights and tell various stories, depending on the clanship of the carver(s). Below, is one of the original Tlingit totem poles in the Ketchikan area.
I followed Ketchikan Creek, from City Park, where it helps with a series of salmon ladders, to its confluence with the sea, near downtown.
The thin soil and the water action leave trees to fend for themselves, root-wise.
The Creek is variously calm and rambunctious, like all Alaskan waterways.
Married Man’s Trail takes commitment.
African-Americans have had a key role to play in Alaskan life, since 1867. Miss Annie was a fighter for women’s rights, before suffrage.
I met my friend, Ms. Chapman, downtown and went to a brief meeting at the Recreation Center. While she was tending to other business afterward, I went over to Annabelle’s for fine Alaskan cuisine.
This tunnel goes under a rail link, and takes traffic from downtown to the ferry terminal.
I took these stairs to get to the hostel, where I again met Ms. Chapman.
From there, we went over to the evening meeting, which she and her daughter hosted. This is a view from her neighbourhood.
This is a cat’s eye view of the world.
My hosts were gracious, in the Alaska tradition.
My first of two days in Ketchikan was certainly very full. So, too, would be the second day.
It’s said by the locals here, that eagles in Sitka are like pigeons elsewhere, and that black bears are like rats. I didn’t see any bears, anywhere in southeast Alaska, but there were eagles aplenty, thought they took exception to photography, most of the time.
There have been eagles perched on the steeple of the Lutheran Church, and atop the adjacent St. Michael’s Eastern Orthodox Cathedral.
The Lutheran Church was built to accommodate Finnish shipwrights, who were brought to Sitka, both to build and repair ships, and to build the Russian Bishop’s House. The house was the residence of the man now known as St. Innocent. The church was placed across the street from the Orthodox Church, mostly so that the bishop could keep an eye on the Finns.
Both churches burned to the ground, in 1966. Both have, of course, been rebuilt, and both are still active institutions in Sitka life.
The Lutheran Church is austere, though it has a fine old organ.
The Orthodox Church is replete with the gold, for which that denomination is well-known.
After looking at the interiors of the churches, I went to investigate the central waterfront. A local boy was quite impressed with the work of a Haida canoe builder. He was busy telling some other unruly kids to stay out of the canoe.
The Russian Bishop’s House is the centerpiece of Sitka National Historic Site.
I took a guided tour of the upstairs. The docent explained that the home was built by Finnish shipwrights. Their methods are obvious here, even today.
The Southeast Alaska Marine Center keeps close watch on sea stars, and other key creatures, as well as maintaining active fish-spawning ladders, primarily for salmon. Volunteers, including our hostel manager, Katherine, are checking the beaches, most days, for marine creature health.
This is Whale Park, to which our friend, Mary, took us, as part of her guided visit to the north and south ends of the island.
I visited the Totem Pole Trail on my own, prior to Mary’s guiding my new friend, A.,, and me.
Every town in the Pacific Northwest has totem pole displays.
For the most part, the totem poles on display are replicas. Those in the wire cage below, are originals. All on this site, and elsewhere, are sacred to the Tlingit, Tsimshian and Haida people, throughout the southeast islands and peninsulas.
This pole marks the site of the Battle of Sitka, in 1704, in which the Russians defeated an army of Tlingits. To this day, Tlingits look upon Russians with grave suspicion.
A. and I were photographed separately, at the south end signpost.
The north end of the island has an artesian well, from which many locals obtain their drinking water.
Our last stop in Sitka, that evening, was the Baranof Totem Pole, on Castle Hill,so built for Count Baranof, one of the last Russian governors of the territory.
I ended my time in Sitka, early the next morning, flying out to Ketchikan, on which I began Mile 200.
June 14, 2015, Sitka- The fast ferry from Juneau made it through some narrow channels, in five hours. Sitka is the premier site of preserved Russian influence in the United States. There are other such sites, most notably Fort Bragg, CA, but Sitka was Base Camp for Governor Baranof and the Czar’s forces of occupation. Only when financial matters took precedence, did Alaska pass out from under royal fiefdom.
I came here with a friend, met at the Juneau Hostel, and we determined to hike one of the island’s peaks, as the weather had returned to picture book perfection. The choice was Mt. Verstovia, two miles south southeast of town.
Of course, we couldn’t start without first having a light lunch at a food truck.
A taxi took us the two miles to the trailhead.
Mt. Verstovia had significance to the early Russian colonists, who heated their simple homes with wood and used charcoal for cooking.
My young friend and her husband collect heart-shaped stones, so my penchant for coming across them piqued her interest. Of course, being in a national forest. this stayed put.
At the 1.2 mile mark, this was the view to the west.
Most of the trail involved steps and switchbacks. The moss made the descent a bit of a challenge- but what an unparalleled trail!
Mountaineers no doubt feel the call, when looking northward.
Once at the end of the maintained trail, the true peak of Mt. Verstovia called out, as well. A few young men headed over to check it out.
Most of us, though, were satisfied with Picnic Rock, and the 2480 foot ascent.
I have a long ways to go, in getting trim, but a few more like this will help greatly.
We spent about four hours on the mountain, including all the time spent gazing at the various surrounding sights.
June 21, 2015, Monroe, WA- I will continue with my photoblogs and Road to 65, upon getting these thoughts out. Today was my second Father’s Day with no father figure. Every man who is older than I am, is now a senior peer- good for some advice, while not one who has emotional investment in my well-being.
I am now at the patriarchal stage of life. This is the natural order of things, and something one ought to treasure- not as an authority figure, but as one who is a trusted mentor. I am the eldest of my parents’ children, and though I have hardly always been the wisest, I feel responsible for my siblings, nieces and nephews, as well as for my son- though each and every one of them is doing just fine without my daily input.
A father is responsible for ALL his children. Some time ago, a man said- “Well, easy for you to say. You have one son and no daughters.” That is happenstance. Had I a household of nine or ten, it’d be the same. Every child matters- and fathers are needed by both genders of offspring. I would dare say, further, that the more challenged a child is, the more he or she needs both parents to be actively involved in his or her life.
I have ached today, at reading some accounts by women who feel that they have no close bond with their father. I have read posts by women who suffer, seeing that the father of their child has only a fleeting connection to that child- and the child in question is just as likely to be a boy, as to be a girl. Every child matters.
I was, and am, far from a perfect parent, and very much doubt that perfection exists in this aspect of our lives. That does not excuse anyone from putting their best foot forward. Both of my parents did their level best with their roles,as they understood those roles. They knew parenthood to be their most important job. This awareness was passed along to us, and we, in turn, have passed it along to our children. My nieces and nephews are doing a fine job, in their turn. I have observed Aram, in his moments as a surrogate parent, and he will do just fine, when the time comes.
My middle brother once said, “Any man can be a father, but it takes a special man to be a Daddy.” This is all too true- but it should not be! A child should be able to follow the natural inclination to call his/her father “Dada”, “Papa”, “Dad”. There will never be a time when that title, (first used by Aram towards me, when he was just shy of two and sang a song that he made up, on that very special Father’s Day of 1990), will not be the greatest I’ve ever held.
May the day come when each parent can be honoured on their given day, and every day, in all honesty, by each of their children.
