Rich wrote those words in a scrapbook sixty years ago, not knowing the life that lay ahead of him and how many lives he will have touched by the time he was done.
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Remember: 5 peanuts
When I was in high school, my dad used to feed the neighborhood squirrels every day, 5 peanuts – no more, no less. When he would leave for business trips, he would stick a post-it on the front door, reminding me to take care of his friends while he was gone. 5 peanuts – no more, no less. I never forgot.
(Said squirrels soon became so emboldened by this tradition that one even came into the living room looking for peanuts one summer, when the sliding door was open. Ruby was not thrilled)
For a while he stopped doing that once he left California, claiming that Florida squirrels weren't as friendly. I carried on the tradition, and in every long-distance phone call, he checked to make sure I still fed the squirrels.
In the last year of his life, he started doing this again. First in Florida, while taking a walk in the green space of his most recent apartment complex, then continuing once he moved to Connecticut. We would sit on his back porch every Sunday, feeding the squirrels and the birds while he tried to impart upon me the last bits of wisdom he could before he left us.
Remember: 5 peanuts
Don't worry, dad. I won't forget.
When I was in high school, my dad used to feed the neighborhood squirrels every day, 5 peanuts – no more, no less. When he would leave for business trips, he would stick a post-it on the front door, reminding me to take care of his friends while he was gone. 5 peanuts – no more, no less. I never forgot.
(Said squirrels soon became so emboldened by this tradition that one even came into the living room looking for peanuts one summer, when the sliding door was open. Ruby was not thrilled)
For a while he stopped doing that once he left California, claiming that Florida squirrels weren't as friendly. I carried on the tradition, and in every long-distance phone call, he checked to make sure I still fed the squirrels.
In the last year of his life, he started doing this again. First in Florida, while taking a walk in the green space of his most recent apartment complex, then continuing once he moved to Connecticut. We would sit on his back porch every Sunday, feeding the squirrels and the birds while he tried to impart upon me the last bits of wisdom he could before he left us.
Remember: 5 peanuts
Don't worry, dad. I won't forget.