Book Review--The Lake House by Kate Morton

Australian novelist, Kate Morton, most recent book drew me in because it takes place in Cornwall, situated in the southwestern corner of England. We spent a happy week there in one of the small coastal villages a couple of years ago. My memories of the quaint villages, the spectacular scenery and more made this a must-read for me. I have read other novels by Ms. Morton and enjoyed some more than others. My favorite is The Forgotten Garden.

Readers who are drawn to family sagas with a hint of mystery set in exotic places would probably consider Ms. Morton's books a good read. As a writer, she amazes me with the complicated plotting that she has done. Twists and turns keep the reader engaged. 

In this latest novel, a seventy-year-old mystery is explored, told and retold, which can become a bit tedious for the reader. However, we see the mysterious disappearance of 11-month-old Theo Edavane from the viewpoint of multiple characters. The Edavane family resides in a luxurious home in Cornwall where the three daughters and young son are lovingly cared for by parents and staff. Anthony, the father, served in WWI and suffers from what we now know as PTSD. His wife, Eleanor, does all she can to help him as well as hide the affliction from others. 

The story jumps constantly from the early 1930's to the early 2000's. Alice, the youngest Edavane daughter has become a best-selling mystery novelist but the one mystery she cannot solve is her baby brother's kidnapping decades earlier. Enter Sadie Sparrow, a young police detective, who is on leave from her job after a huge gaffe she made while investigating a case. Sadie leaves London to visit a grandfather in Cornwall. While there, she becomes interested in the Edavane unsolved mystery. No body was ever found. No trace of a child who was thought to be kidnapped. 

Various family members and investigators think they know what happened. Through the constant flashbacks, we see what really occurred and we watch as Sadie helps unlock the truth. 

There will be readers who find this book too difficult to read because of the myltiple flashbacks being interspersed with the present-day story. The book is nearly 500 pages, so there are a great many places where we travel back to the 1930's. In fact, the majority of the book is set in that time period. There are also quite a few characters to keep straight. Again, Ms Morton has created fully-developed characters that we come to know as we read.

The mystery is solved in the end, of course, but I found the circumstances a bit too theatrical and somewhat unbelievable. The odds of this story ending the way it does in the novel in real life are astronomical. Despite this, I did enjoy the story and, of course, the setting in Cornwall. It's not a book for everyone but if you like mysteries, English tales of aristocrats, and a story that keeps you guessing, give it a try. 

Do You Have a Passion For Writing?

I learned something about myself during the 11 days I had no internet service and was so busy getting settle into our new home that there was no time to write. Story ideas kept coming to me in multiples. Just when I didn't have time or the ability to act upon them!

Oh, how I wanted to drop everything and also wave a magic wand over my computer to create the connection that it stubbornly refused to activate. My urge to write became almost overwhelming at times.

i realized that I have a true passion to write. Those little hearts above signify that passion. It's one of the reasons that I started this blog nine years ago. I wanted to share the deep feelings for writing that I have with other writers or wanna-be writers. I hoped to encourage other writers, to let them know that they aren't alone in the frustrations this craft sends our way at times. I care about my writing and I hoped to inspire others to do the same.

If you have a real passion to write, it is more than likely to show in your finished works. You'll also derive more joy from writing that story, essay, poem or book.

How does the passionate writer differ from one who only writes from other needs? What I have listed below is merely my opinion. Not fact backed up with clinical studies.

The passionate writer often:

• has a deep urge to write most of the time
• puts writing above other activities 
• wants to act on a story idea immediately
• derives great joy from writing
• has a desire to share what they write with others
• resents the daily activities that keep them from writing 
• cannot stop writing

Those who don't consider themselves passionate writers often:

• have long periods where they do not write at all
• write only because they need/hope to sell a story
• give priority to other activities
• do not act on a story idea and lose it after too long a time
• have less emotion showing in the writing itself
• do not care as much 

So, how about you? Do you have a passion for writing? As for me, I cannot function anymore without writing in some manner. I'm not turning out stories like hotcakes off a griddle. But I do write my blog five days a week. I do write lots of letters. (Yes, that is a form of writing for writers,too.) I do some form of writing on a daily basis. I love putting words together in phrases and sentences that others might want to read. 

In case you hadn't figured it out, I love writing!

Troubles For My Blog and Other Worldly Connections

The photo above is not me, but it's a reasonable fascimile. As most of you know, we made a move across town on the 16th of January. Everything went just fine except for our phone service and then, the internet connection. I won't detail the issue but suffice it to say that it has tried my patience.

Hah! Haven't patience and perseverance always been the keywords in my writing world? I've mastered being patient in that world but when it comes to being connected to the world via internet--that's a different story. 

Part of the problem involved one phone company cutting the lines of another. Shouldn't that be illegal?  I would think so but apparently not. Another factor was the woman at the internet server neglectging to put in the order to change my service from one address to another. That was not found out until about 10 days had gone by. 

Today, the modem has all the right lights doing what they are suppose to but access it the internet is still blocked. So, I am on a guest server which is not secure. We're getting closer to solving the problem but not there yet. Perseverance! That's the other keyword that I need to keep in mind right now.

I am hoping to get this solved soon and back to my regular schedule of posting Monday through Friday. Meanwhile, I hope you writers are continuing to write and the readers are reading on a regular basis. 

For the readers--I am almost finished with Kate Morton's newest novel titled The Lake House. If you've enjoyed her earlier novels, I'd recommend seeeking this one for a good winter read. I hope to offer a review of it once things here get back to normal. 

I've missed connecting with the Followers and readers of this blog. 

Today's Story: Everyday Tea

NOTE: We are moving Saturday. I hope my internet service is connected and working by Monday. If there is no new post that day, that's the reason why.

This story appeared in a special Chicken Soup for the Soul book with the theme Tea Lovers. It's about a very special memory that my grandmother provided for me. It was she who taught me to savor a cup of tea. Even now, these many decades later, it's my afternoon pick-me-up on many days. I still believe what Grandma taught me about the kind of teapot that brews the best tea.

Everyday Tea

By Nancy Julien Kopp

I learned to drink tea at a very early age. My Scots-Irish grandmother owned a small neighborhood bakery, and for the first five years of my life, my mother and I spent our week-day mornings in the working area of that establishment. I learned early on that I was to stay out of the way of those who worked at the high tables, and that the sales area of the bakery remained forbidden territory.

Many was the time that I crept to the doorway and peeked into the room where glass cases held the delectable treats my grandmother created. Cakes and pies, bread and rolls, coffeecakes and cookies lined the shelves, I watched with interest as a young Czech girl served customers. More than once, a firm hand circled my arm, pulled me none too gently away from the doorway and scolded me on the way to the long picnic table that ran across one end of the workroom. The pale green oilcloth cover served as background to thick white cups and saucers that sat ready to be filled with the strong, hot tea brewed in a plain brown teapot. “You can only make good tea in a plain brown pot,” Grandma remarked on many occasions.

Grandma served the tea, but when she came to mine she poured only half a cup. Then she added a spoonful of sugar and filled my cup to the top with milk. “English tea for you,” she’d say. Never would our tea be savored all by itself. Grandma always had a plate of something fresh from the oven. Cinnamon rolls, or sliced coffeecakes or a muffin. To this day, I like a little bit of something sweet to go with my tea. The scent of yeast and spices surrounded us as we sipped the tea. In wintertime, we enjoyed the waves of warmth from the ovens, and in summer, we put up with the combined heat of the outside temperature and those never-empty ovens while we had our everyday tea.

I lifted my cup with both hands and sipped at my “English tea” and listened to Mother and my uncle chat. I nibbled on one of the goodies Grandma passed to me, and I knew only contentment. I liked sitting at the long table during the tea break swinging my legs, waiting for the time when they would all return to work and I could plan my next peek out front.

One Saturday afternoon after the baking had been done, Grandma came to our apartment. She was dressed in a tailored suit and wore a hat that had big pink roses on it. She carried white gloves and a handbag. She wasn’t the grandma I knew, the one who wore a Mother Hubbard apron over her plain cotton dress every day. “We’re going to Marshall Fields today to have our tea.” she told me. I looked at my mother to see what she thought about this new situation. She smiled and repeated the oft-used phrase of all mothers in the early 1940’s, “Be a good girl.”

Grandma and I rode the elevated train to downtown Chicago. The conductor called out the stops, and finally, Grandma tugged at my hand. We stepped out onto a wooden platform where we were greeted by a symphony of traffic sounds. Pigeons strutted nearby, pecking at peanuts tossed on the platform. I was fascinated by the soft, grey birds and would have stayed to watch them, but Grandma whisked me through a set of double doors that led into the famed Marshall Field’s store. We walked straight into the china department. Glorious china, crystal, silver and linens were displayed on dining room tables. But there was no tea here.

My little-girl legs worked hard to keep up with Grandma as she led the way to the elevators. “Seven please,” Grandma said to the operator, and up we went. The doors opened, and we stepped into the magnificent Walnut Room. Dark paneled walls, soft carpet and potted palms surrounded us. A hostess led us to a small table draped with a snowy linen cloth. Other ladies with suits, hats and gloves sat at similar tables. I felt a tickle in my tummy for I knew now that this would not be an everyday tea. Something special waited for us in this elegant dining room.

Grandma spoke softly to a uniformed waitress, then settled into her chair and graced me with a warm smile. Her face looked softer than it did at the bakery where she spent so many hours. Even at my young age I knew my grandma worked hard.

Soon, the waitress returned to our table. She placed a small plate, fork and spoon, a china teacup and saucer in front of each of us. A linen napkin finished the setting. Ladies nearby sipped tea and nibbled at tiny sandwiches and small iced cakes. Oh if only we were to have the same. The tickle in my tummy started up again, and I wiggled on my chair in anticipation.

Sure enough, the waitress brought a lovely flowered teapot and two plates. One held  dainty open-faced sandwiches, and pastel iced cakes filled the second one. I waited for Grandma to tell the waitress that good tea could only be made in a plain brown teapot, but she never said a word. Instead, she poured my half cup of tea, added sugar and milk. Then she placed a sandwich and a cake on my plate. I watched her lay the napkin on her lap, and I followed her example. Just as I was to take my first bite, piano music interrupted the sound of spoons on saucers and ladies conversing. Soon, several tall, slender women strolled through the vast Tea Room stopping momentarily at an occasional table. “It’s a Fashion Show,” Grandma whispered to me. The models wore the kind of dresses and hats we saw only in the movies. They glided and pirouetted, faces looking like they were set in stone, but a strange thing happened as they approached us. Each one that stopped at our table looked right at me and smiled. One even winked. Now the tickle in my tummy felt like butterflies chasing each other.

All too soon the Fashion Show ended, and we’d had our fill of the tea, sandwiches and cakes. We rode the train home where I related the events of the day to my mother and father.

I had tea with Grandma at the picnic table in the bakery many, many times, but she never took me to the Walnut Room again. Long after my grandma was gone, I returned to Marshall Fields for tea on my own, and sometimes I’d look across the table and see my grandma in her rose-covered hat smiling at me. She taught me the difference between everyday tea and special tea--that a little something sweet came with both kinds of tea, but sweetest of all were the memories my grandma created. I feel her near each time I pour my everyday tea from my plain brown pot.

Elizabeth Doonan Studham--my maternal grandmother

My Story For Today: Message In The Night

Today's story is fiction, not my greatest forte but a genre I like to try now and then. This story, meant for pre-teens and early teens, turned out to be one adults enjoyed, too. It has been published twice and is a favorite of mine. Maybe you'll enjoy reading it, too. Again, ask yourself why two editors agreed to publish this one.

Bit of trivia--this story came to me one evening at a symphony performance. I have no idea what piece the orchestra was playing, but the story below unfolded in my mind, bit by bit. I wrote the story the next day.

Message in the Night

by Nancy Julien Kopp

“I can do it, Mama. Please let me,” I pleaded.

Mama’s pale face and the pillowslip seemed one and the same. Her hand closed over mine, and a weak sigh escaped from her lips. “Rand, you can’t go. It’s much too dangerous.”

“But Mama, Papa’s regiment is so close. I can get through the Yankee lines and find him. I know I can. Cousin Nell knows where they are. Please let me try.”

Mama never took her eyes off me as I paced before the big four-poster bed. “This would give Papa something good to think about, wouldn’t it?” My heart pounded in my chest while I made my case.

“What if you’re caught, Rand?” Mama struggled to sit up in the bed. “This is Yankee territory.” 

The single tear that slid down her cheek only made me more determined. “You go to sleep now, Mama.” I patted her shoulder and slipped out the door before she could protest again.

Cousin Nell stood in the hallway, plump arms crossed, her mouth clamped tight. “And where do you think you’re going?” She hissed the words, and her eyes flashed with anger.

“Why—to my room, Cousin Nell.” I spoke more pleasantly than I felt, even though we were guests in her house. The War Between the North and South kept us here far from home.

I turned the brass knob on my bedroom door slowly and called back to Cousin Nell. “Where did you say the Yankee camp was?”

I held my breath as she rattled on scolding and telling me what I needed to hear at the same time. My hand rubbed the smooth knob while I waited for her to divulge every bit of information I wanted to know.

A frown crossed Mama’s cousin’s broad face. “Your South Carolina regiment isn’t far away either. There’ll be a battle soon. You go into your room and pray for them all, Yank or Reb, no matter!” She put a quick smile on her face and glided into Mama’s room.


I dressed in warm clothes, ones Mama and Cousin Nell might not approve. They belonged to Cousin Nell’s son, Frank, who was away at school. The coat and pants were a little big, but they would serve me well on this cold Pennsylvania night.

I crept down the stairs, my hand barely touching the wide, curved banister. A gust of cold, November wind hit my face as I opened the side door and stepped outside. I shivered and hunched down farther into Frank’s coat, pulling his wool cap down at the same time. The soft glow from Mama’s window gave me the courage I needed.

The moonless night, dark and cold, was so unlike the Carolina winters I knew. An eerie howl rent the air and made the hair stand up on my neck. I froze in the middle of the road. All I wanted was to turn back. I tired not to dwell on the dark woods on either side of the road or \what might lurk within it. The way would be shorter through the thicket, but I chose to walk straight ahead on the road.

Before long, the distant sound of a horse’s hooves left me no choice. Groaning softly, I plunged into the woodland where darkness swallowed me immediately. Only my groping hands led the way between the tall trees. Low branches snapped back to scratch my face. When I finally reached the meadow beyond, I stopped to catch my breath and to listen for the sound of men and horses. I was rewarded with blessed silence.

Afraid to go on and fearful of turning back, I closed my eyes and forced my father’s face into my mind’s eye. My lower lip stopped trembling, and I moved steadily away from the thicket. Thankful for the moonless night, I crouched down and moved slowly across the open area of the meadow.

The sounds made by restless horses and the smell of smoke told me I was nearing the Yankee camp. Farther on, I knew, I would hear voices that sounded like home, and one of those soft toned voices would help me find my father among the many men camped there waiting to engage the northern enemy.

I heard a voice, all right, but it had the harsh tone of a Yankee, not the Carolina accent I longed for. I flattened myself on the cold, hard ground. The aroma of the damp, pungent soil seeped into my nose. 

In only seconds, a large, rough hand clamped me on the shoulder. I cringed inside Frank’s coat.

The clipped northern voice was inches from my ear. “And what do you think you’re doing, boy?”


The hand never loosened its grip as it hauled me to my feet.

The soldier repeated his earlier inquiry with a growl. “What are you doing here?”

The man had only one eye visible, as the other one was covered with a dirty bandage that continued around his head. The eye I could see glinted with anger.

I squeezed my own eyes shut and brought Papa’s face back again. Then I swallowed hard and said, “I’m looking for my father. I have important news for him.”

One-Eye glared at me. “Who is this high and mighty father that his son walks out in the night to meet him?”

“He’s Colonel Robert Whitburn of the 49th Regiment of South Carolina,” I answered as I looked straight into his eye.

He let go of my shoulder and squawked, “What? What did you say?” The soldier switched his rifle from one hand to the other. He leaned so close to me that I could see spaces where his teeth were missing and smell his stale breath.

He said, “You got some nerve, boy. Too bad you hit the wrong camp first, ain’t it?” He straightened up and rubbed his stubbly chin. “Come on,” he said, grabbing me again, “we’ll see what the captain says.”

He walked fast, half dragging me to a tent nearby, shouting as we entered. “This here boy’s got hisself in the wrong spot, Captain. Says he’s lookin’ fer his daddy over on the other side.” 

His eye didn’t seem so fierce anymore. In fact, he seemed right friendly compared to the cold look the other man directed toward me.

After a long silence, the officer spoke. “Son, this is no place for you. There’s danger to be met by any who venture this way. His mouth and eyes matched the hardness in his voice. “Your name?”

My answer came in a half whisper and half aloud. “Rand Whitburn, sir.” I continued in a voice made stronger at the thought of my mission. “Please sir, I must get to my father. I have news for him, a message he needs to hear before….before something happens to him.” My bottom lip quivered as I finished.

“What is this important news?” the captain said, impatience evident in his voice. “Come here and tell me.”


I shook my head in denial so hard the cap flew off, and my long hair fell down my back.

One-Eye howled. “He’s a girl, sir!”

The captain’s eyes widened as he ordered, “Suppose you come over here now, Rand. What kind of a name is that for a girl anyway?” One corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“It’s short for Miranda…sir.” I picked up Frank’s cap and edged closer.

The captain clasped his hands behind his back. “I’m going to help you, but I’m not sure why. I should lock you up as a prisoner of war.”

At those words, I stepped back until I felt One-Eye’s hand on my shoulder, more gently this time.

“Sergeant,” the captain said, “get four men, horses, and a white flag. Then escort Miss Miranda Whitburn to the enemy camp. She can ride with you. See that she delivers her message and returns here.”

One-Eye grinned broadly as he saluted and snapped, “Yessir.”

I turned to follow him, but the captain stopped me with one word. “Wait.” He stomped across the dirt floor of the tent and stared down at me. “What assurance do I have that you’re not passing vital information? I must know your message before you go.”

I had little choice. I stood on tiptoe, and he leaned closer as I whispered in his ear. He straightened quickly, and a wide smile crossed his face.

“A man would like to hear such news, Miranda. It would give him something to live for.” Looking serious again, he said, “You’d better put your hair back under that cap. Continue on with the disguise.”

I soon found myself in the night air again, riding behind One-Eye, my arms around his ample middle. My heart beat rapidly with both fear and excitement. Could I trust the white flag? Or One-Eye himself? Once again, I had little choice, so I closed my eyes and lay my cheek against One-Eye’s scratchy coat as his horse carried us through the darkness.

“Halt!” a voice ordered when we neared the camp of the South Carolina regiment. Men with rifles surrounded us.

”I have business with Colonel Robert Whitburn,” One-Eye said. “Send him out. Then we’ll be on our way.” 


The Confederate soldier stared at him, open-mouthed. He didn’t look much older than I.

One-Eye leaned down and barked, “Now!”

I started to slide as he bent over, but he neatly pushed me back up with one hand behind him. We waited for what seemed like a long time, the armed men still surrounding us. The only sound came from the horses that pawed the ground, snorted, and shook their heads. I was numb with both the cold and fright.

At last, I saw Papa coming straight toward us, his long legs covering the ground quickly. I swung my leg over, slid to the ground, and ran to my father.

“Halt! Halt!” several voices ordered, but I didn’t stop until I nearly knocked Papa over. My cap sailed off, and my hair streamed down the back of Frank’s coat again.

“Rand? What…? Miranda Whitburn, what in the world are you doing here?” Papa held me at arm’s length, then pulled me close. I wanted to stay in his arms forever. 

With a sigh, I stepped back and crooked my finger at him. He leaned close, a frown on his face. “Papa, I came here to tell you that you have two fine sons, born this morning. Twins, Papa. What do you think of that?”

The moon broke through the clouds, and the joy on Papa’s face erased all the cold and fear of this night. He blinked hard, but I could see the tears that threatened to spill over.

Finally, he answered me. “I think I have twin boys with the bravest sister in all of South Carolina.” Papa hugged me again before he escorted me to One-Eye for the return ride to the Yankee camp.

The Promise--Today's Story

The story for today was published in an anthology compiled by HCI called Ultimate Teacher.  See if you can tell why it appealed to the editors for their theme. What happened with me and the professor has been a forever memory--the fear, the dread and the joy at the end are still with me.

The Promise By Nancy Julien Kopp I woke that fateful day immersed in anxiety and misery. How would I survive what lay ahead? It was 1959, my junior year in college, and I was studying to become a teacher. I loved it, thrived in the preparations I was making to become a professional educator. Classes in English, Psychology, Reading Methods and more gave me no problems. What loomed ahead this awful day, however, made me shiver with fear. No way out. I had to face the music I told myself as I dragged my reluctant body from the warm cocoon of blankets. Face the music? That was exactly what I had to do this morning. My churning stomach meant breakfast would be skipped today. Each tick of the clock brought me closer to disaster. I donned coat and gloves, wrapped a scarf around my neck and set out on legs that felt heavier with each step. For once, I didn’t relish the walk across campus. Face the music? I shuddered as that simple phrase skipped through my mind once again. I journeyed slowly to the final exam in my Music For The Elementary School class…an exam with no paper and pencil. I might have done all right with a test like that. Instead, the professor would select any three songs of nine we were to learn to play on the piano. The pieces were not concertos or etudes. These were little children’s songs, like “Mary Had A Little Lamb”. The professor explained the first week of class that we had to learn three groups of songs in three different keys. To be sure, we had all semester to do this, plenty of time to master them, he assured us. Music Department pianos were available for practice. “Piece of cake,” the girl next to me said . “Easy enough,” another chirped as I glared at her. “Cinch class,” yet another said rolling her eyes to Heaven. I kept my silence, but the worry started, right then and there. I had many talents, but music was not one of them. I liked to listen to it. I was able to appreciate it, but I could not learn to tap a triangle at the right time in third grade. I could not sing on key. I could not read the musical notes on a staff. No musical aptitude whatsoever. No musical education either. I signed up for practice times several days each week all semester. Anyone nearby must have winced at my efforts. Lovely songs tripped off the fingers of other practicing pianists, and the music floated through the hallway. I asked my roommate for help. After several sessions, she told me it was a hopeless cause and suggested I cry on the professor’s shoulder, plead for mercy or something more drastic. What the more drastic might be I feared to ask. I did talk to the professor, poured out my tale of woe. I explained that I was “Musically Handicapped.” “Have you put some effort into this?” he asked me. “Really put some work into learning to play these little songs on the piano?” With tears threatening, I assured him I had. His answer was that I would do fine when the time came, and he strode out of the classroom after patting me on the shoulder. Now, the day of my demise had arrived. I could not have feared execution any more than I did this music exam. The professor greeted me with a smile, rubbed his hands together and said, “Well now, are we ready?” I sank onto the bench and attempted to play the three songs he selected. He kindly picked what were probably the three easiest pieces, and I managed to butcher each one. At the end of my futile performance, the professor beckoned me to his desk. He looked at me, started to speak, then stopped and wiped his hand across his forehead. “Nancy, this is what we are going to do. You’ve put forth a great deal of effort, so I will give you a C in this class on one condition. “Anything,” I answered. “You must promise me that you will only teach in a school that also employs a music teacher!” He grinned at me after making the statement. With vast relief, I made the promise. I taught in more than one school district, but I always made sure it was one that had a music teacher. I watched with great admiration as music class was conducted, as songs were played on the piano the teacher rolled from classroom to classroom twice each week. What a genius she is, I thought, as her fingers flew across the keys. To this day, the only musical thing I play is a CD player or radio. After all, a promise is meant to be honored.

Today's Story: Squeals and Squeezes

Today's story is one of the earliest I had published in Chicken Soup for the Soul books. This one appeared in a book that had Dads as the theme. It evolved from an incident that I witnessed--one that took hardly any time at all. Yet, as a bystander, what I saw touched my heart. Perhaps it will yours, too. 

When you are stuck for story ideas, don't bypass the little incidents in life that you see. Many make really fine stories. 

Squeals and Squeezes

 By Nancy Julien Kopp

I watched a toddler run on sturdy, chubby legs squealing as he traversed the length of the country club lounge. A tall, good-looking man strode purposefully behind him, closing in on his prey. He reached for the runaway boy with a large hand and grasped nothing but air. The child had spied a banquet table draped in a white linen skirt, and with lightning speed, he’d lifted the cloth and scooted underneath, then turned eerily silent. He knew this Hide-and-Seek game well, despite his young age.

The dad circled the table with one ear cocked, waiting for his son to reveal his whereabouts. After two full circles, he leaned down, picked up the cloth and peered underneath. The little boy giggled and squealed as his daddy grabbed hold of him, scooped him into his arms and held him close. The little boy pulled back and gazed straight into his daddy’s eyes. Not a word was said but the child wound both arms around his daddy’s neck and squeezed, then lay his blond head on the man’s broad shoulder.

The dad held the child close to his heart, kissed his cheek, then stroked his hair as he carried him back to the gathering of families nearby.  

I felt privileged to watch these two, for I’d witnessed not only a simple moment of a father and son at play. Instead, it proved to be a scene that etched itself onto my heart, a forever memory. The daddy was a member of an army attack battalion stationed at an army post near our town. He’d served a tour in Iraq and in a matter of weeks, he’d board a transport plane with his battalion and return to the battlefield once again. But now, he and his family were attending a recognition dinner at our country club. On this night, he wasn’t a soldier wearing full body armor, clutching his rifle—on the alert for any strange movements or sounds. Tonight he could be a daddy playing with a child he loved. He’d already missed a full year of the boy’s growing up, and all too soon, he’d be gone again. How much more would he miss? Who would play “Catch Me” with the boy while he was gone?

Once he’s back in Iraq, the young soldier may lie in his bunk at night, too weary to sleep. His thoughts will no doubt turn to home, his wife, and his energetic, playful son. The boy will be talking in sentences by the time this tour ends. And pretty soon he’ll be old enough to play catch in the backyard. A boy needs a dad to get him ready for his first baseball team.

 I have a feeling this father will replay the evening’s chase in his mind myriad times. More than a game; it was yet another link in the bonding between father and son. The squeals and squeezes of both translate easily into love a father has for a son in its purest form. I pray that love survives the separation and renews itself with more squeals and squeezes when the soldier daddy comes home again.