Simple Pleasures …

I grew up in a family with a mother and a dad who were polar opposites in nearly every way. My mother was only 7 when her own mother died; she and her younger brother, who was only 6, were scarred for life. For them, fear was a constant companion, fear of more loss they couldn’t predict. The good that came their way too often had a “but” attached to it (even if they were the only ones who could hear it).

My dad grew up in a household full of enough; there were no traumas. They had enough food, enough money, enough love. He was the baby, the last child of six, and adored. And he grew up with a sunny disposition that naturally drew others to him.

He was the kind of person everyone wanted to be around.

We lived in a good neighborhood and had a nice house, although I don’t remember my mother ever smiling as she looked at the décor, the furniture so carefully chosen and placed, the wallpaper — all the items that she had didn’t seem to make her happy. I know I was only a kid, but … I just don’t remember seeing her laugh or smile. She must have sometimes, right? But my strongest memories are of her just seeming sad, of not being able to enjoy the life she had as a grown woman.

My dad? He honestly loved life, and it showed. It showed in how he smiled at others, how he treated everyone, how often he laughed and smiled, and how much pleasure he…