I heard the thunder rolling in today and along with it came memories of my childhood. Wonderful memories of sitting on my parents’ covered front porch watching the skies with my father. It was a ritual of ours. Sitting out there daring the rain to blow upon us, knowing it rarely did so. We would talk of weather and science and how things worked. Knowledge that my father passed along freely and with passion. If the weather got worse my mother hovered near the basement, with an intermittent yell for us to come inside. But we sat there and watched the world around us- and we talked. It was in those moments that I knew I could ask anything and my father would not hesitate to try his best to explain even the most complicated answer to me. He was a born teacher. A good teacher. A fantastic teacher.
Throughout my life whether rain or shine, my father has been there ready to help. Teaching was not only his profession but part of his being. He has taught me to be kind to others, lend a helping hand to those in need, to value morals, and to be always open to learning. He is a quiet man, never jumping to reach the spotlight but content to be himself. Being always inquisitive he has instilled that in me as well.
It has been so long ago since we sat there on the porch. But it seems like yesterday. I miss those rainy days and I will ever hold them dear. Time has moved on, I am much older- working on the second half of a century. My father will be eighty-three this year. My mother has passed on, no longer eyeing the storms with worry and anxiety. No longer calling us inside. But when I close my eyes I swear it was just yesterday, out on the porch watching the rain, asking questions – and learning.