Mostly she loved my Dad, a seemingly impossible task, because my Father was something ... a giant of a heart with a teenager's soul, a great streak of bad luck surrounded with the best of friends and a sense of humor that could laugh at Hitler.
"You know why Hitler hated Golf?"
I can hear him asking, eyes already moist from the explosion of laughter that follows the punch line.
"Because he always finished in the Bunker."
Mom put up with ... even encouraged ... him.
Once, at the Athens Holiday Inn while we're at the game, pulling for the Beloved Dawgs of Georgia, Dad and Robie Hester order a case of beer from room service. They want to ensure there would be plenty when we return and neither wanted to walk to the store because they were watching the game on television.
Everything was fine until they got the bill, when both blamed the other for being too lazy to walk to the store.
Awe Dad, you were something.
There was a time when I was busy trying to change the world and you were busy enjoying life when we'd sometimes sneak off together and share a pitcher of beer at the Captain's Quarter.
We talked about everything.
And we had fun sitting in the dark, dank watering hole.
That's how I see you now.
You were in your 50s then, with a Babe Ruth body from playing golf every day, and constantly busy with a boatload of friends.
We clicked beer mugs and toasted being together again.
Today Che and Sarah will take me out to celebrate Father's Day and I wish to God you could be there Dad.
Lord you would love them so.
I'll get a beer today in a frosty mug and toast you like I do every year, and I know that you'll take a moment to step away from the carnival of Angels you drink with at Heaven's Dive Bar, to tip your mug back at me.
I love you Dad.
Happy Father's Day.
