Last time I lamented about Joe Fisher I was feeling sorry for myself because I found myself with a little less time on my hands with him in my world or me in his--this has been cleverly compensated of course with the ongoing adventures of Pootapottamus Bunkus Rex, my wascally wascal of a grandson, even though I am much too young to be a Grandfather. Alas, I am much too young to have an 18 year old son, for that matter--at least in my minds eye I am.
Lest anyone forget I drive too fast, listen to rock music too loud, and suck the life out of each day--as long as I take my meds and am in bed by 9 pm. Ahem.
Regardless, tomorrow, my son Joe turns 18. Manhood. In reality, young manhood, but manhood none the less.
Good grief--18 years ago. The night prior to Joe showing up we had went to dinner with my boss. Sue was absolutely miserable and was ready to take the steak knife and deliver the baby herself. My Boss and I were oblivious to her plight at the time, and as he continued buying me Jack and Cokes while the night progressed into nearly midnight. Only a couple of hours later Sue told me "its time" and away we went. Joe showed up about lunchtime that day, and we added a son and brother for Amanda. In the delivery room My glasses fogged from the tears in my eyes as I could hear my late Father, H. Ray Fisher, congratulate me on his new grandson.
Joseph Ray Fisher had arrived.
The Daddy in me still sees Joe as the little bitty fellow who sat in the barber chair before he was 2 and got a haircut like his dads and never squirmed once, just like the old men. In fact, Joe has the soul of an old man. I see him when he told me "Dad, we are brothers in Gods eyes", when he was about 4, coming home from day care. The same little boy, when asked at the same day care thanksgiving program what he was thankful for, replied "My Dad"...and I still get misty eyed at that--and I see him playing his first game of baseball on his 5th birthday, and I see those blue eyes turning into crescent moons when he laughs---which his Momma thinks is the absolute greatest thing.
The first day of school, the last day of school, Uncle Bubba (his real name Ray, after my Dad) showing him the joy of fishing and peeing outside, and on and on until I see him coming down the elevator at the airport to tell me goodbye that one last time, both of us crying so hard we could only hold each other. And I see him break all the rules a year later when he nearly knocked me down on the parade field as I came home.
More fishing, more baseball, lots of really good friends (they are all a great group of young people) and throw in the guitar and the girls and here I sit, about to watch my son turn the corner into "young manhood". He is having a great time and I am glad he is. Glory days, indeed.
He is a good boy, I don't care who his Daddy is. All his good traits come from his Momma. Thank you, Lord.
Happy Birthday, Joe Joe. I love you.
Now, If someone will go bring the Pottamus to me, I believe he and I need to have some ice cream.
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