Echoes of Light

Some of my earlier blog posts may have delved into difficult memories, and if they’ve brought you down, I truly apologize—that was never my intention. So today, I thought I’d share some of my happiest childhood memories, moments that I hold close to my heart. 

I grew up surrounded by a treasure trove of *National Geographic* magazines. The articles were challenging for me at first, but I stubbornly worked through the captions under those captivating pictures, learning to read by sounding out the words one by one. Those glossy pages became a portal into distant lands. I imagined myself wandering through Egypt, exploring hidden caves, or studying the great apes alongside Jane Goodall. In my young mind, I truly lived those adventures. 

By the time I was seven, one of my favorite evening routines was climbing into my dad’s lap to read Shakespeare’s plays together. We each took on different parts, changing our voices for every character. In those moments, I was utterly spellbound. It was my two great loves—words and my dad—woven together in perfect harmony. He had the patience of a saint and humored my endless barrage of questions with thoughtful answers. 

Even earlier, when I was just four, we often visited a famous garden. My dad told me that poppies got their name because if you tiptoed up to them and whispered “boo!” quietly enough, they’d startle and go “pop!” Naturally, I could never manage to be quiet enough to catch them in the act. In hindsight, I think it was his clever way of keeping me relatively quiet for a while! 

I had a special role as my dad’s BBQ assistant. He had this small, tan saucepan, and although I never knew all the ingredients, I’d watch him mix up his signature sauce. Armed with a beat-up paintbrush, I carefully basted the chicken or ribs on the grill. Dad also came up with clever ways to get me to eat peas—challenging me to scoop them up on the flat of my knife and see how many I could get to my mouth before they tumbled off. 

As I got older, I rode the bus to a nearby town to attend an MGM program—similar to what’s now called GATE. Unfortunately, the kids at my school nicknamed it “Mentally Gifted Morons,” but my dad was my protector and cheerleader. On rainy days, he’d meet me at the bus stop in his old pickup truck, then whisk me home to warm up by the fire with a steaming mug of hot chocolate, marshmallows and all. 

When my parents separated, my dad moved into an old camper by the river. He wrote me letters about the animals he saw and the quiet peace of the riverbank. I treasured those letters deeply, though sadly, they’ve been lost to time. But the memories remain vivid in my heart. 

My dad was a big man—6 foot 4 and 265 pounds. He wasn’t perfect, but he had a way of making me feel so deeply loved. I’ll always cherish the moments we shared.