Being a father is not a right. It is a privilege. Sunday was Father’s Day. My son called me to wish me “Happy Father’s Day.” I did not hear from my daughter: she had hung up on me several weeks ago and cursed me out. I had written her a letter and she reacted violently to my words. Either we have a relationship based on truth or we have no relationship. It is her choice not to talk to me. I am not her friend but her Dad. And I will continue to speak the truth whether or not she likes it.

Lynelle and I celebrated Father’s Day by taking the Millersburg ferry across the Susquehanna River and eating at a great restaurant that was walking distance. Millersburg is a great quaint town. I took many pictures with my new digital camera of the river and of the town. I could not think of a better way to spend Father’s Day.

Why is it your own “blood” does not validate you?  My writing growing up was always taken for granted by my immediate family–my mom and dad and two sisters.  In the beginning it was my letter writing.  In the sixties I started keeping a journal.  In the late seventies I wrote poetry.  And now I am going on the fifth year of keeping a web site and blog.  Both of my parents are now dead.  I am not sure if my two sisters ever go on my web sites.  They usually don’t comment on them.  My writing is who I am, what is going on which is important to me.

Gratefully my wife cares about my writing, as well as other friends.  I found out I had a talent for making people laugh at open mikes.  And that is a validation of my writing although humor is not the only type of writing I do.  I keep getting hits on my web sites and that is encouraging.  And occasionally I get a poem published in a literary magazine.  I guess we choose our friends.  We can’t choose our family.  Up till his dying day my father who lived until ninety-two was more impressed with money than anything I wrote.  I was a failure in that area.  That still hurts.  Sometimes you have to go outside of your family for validation.  And that was my case.

I don’t know whether I will live that long:  the mattress we just bought is guaranteed for twenty years.  Frankly I don’t know if I will outlive the mattress.  In another twenty years I will be eighty-three.  I know my family is long-lived.  My Dad lived 91 years and my Mom was over 81 when she died.  Nevertheless I am not sure I will make it that long.  It gets me thinking, that is all.  I need to focus on the time allotted to me.  One never knows when one’s times runs out.