This morning when I took my pants off the back of my chair, all the coins scattered to the floor. “Dad!” I shouted. For when I was a boy—and how very long ago that feels now!—the same thing often happened to him. The moment I heard the jangle of metal on the wooden floor, I leaped from my bed and scrambled to pick up as many as I could. The game was that whatever I could grab before he did, I got to keep. (Hmm. The thought just struck that perhaps he did that on purpose to get me out of bed— the foolproof “coin on the floor” alarm clock.)
My Dad has been gone six years now, but all it takes is a quarter falling from a pocket to invoke his memory.
(While writing this blog, the title felt familiar and sure enough, I cross-checked with my alphabetical list of blog titles and found an identical one (minus “again”). I wrote about this on April 16, 2012. I guess there’s only so many stories a fellow has to tell.)