She was nine years old when I wrote my first story. And I just spent some time reading through my earliest tales as well as the reader comments. I reveled in those times and I turned out stories with equal joy. More about LFG than the clothes. It’s an understatement for me to say that the last nine years have flown by. They have. At warp speed. Maybe that’s why my writing kinda trailed off.
It has and continues to be the zenith of my existence—being LFG’s father. I’ve always said that I’m not looking for any parenting accolades. I’ve just wanted to be present and conduct myself in a manner so that LFG will say that “my dad was always there for me when I needed him”.And I sure hope that she remembers our antics and silly fun as much as I do. We had a blast. At least I think we did.She’s not really Southern. I am. Her mother is. Sure she had summer jaunts to the Carolinas to see my mamma but Lily is a mid-Atlantic gal, if not a borderline Yankee. Bethesda will do that to the tender ones.
Yet when it came time to visit colleges my gal wouldn’t even glance at anything north of D.C. She applied to six schools—all of them south of the Mason-Dixon and every one of them accepted her. She’s been in Charleston for two weeks now and I’ve barely been able to get five minutes with her on the phone.