We are all we think we are. And we are none of it.
Shortly after my Dad’s passing ten years ago, I had many thoughts about life. Typical thoughts, I guess. The ones we all have.
Whenever I return home to Spring Grove, Pennsylvania, and people in their late 60’s and early 70’s especially, remember my Dad, I smile.
He was a drummer. A really good one. He played at their weddings, dances and other social functions. He taught some of their kids drum lessons. He worked beside many of them at “The Mill”, for 38 years, until early on-set, rapid progression Alzheimer’s disease forced early retirement.
Those small town folk remember my Dad, but they don’t know my name.
They just refer to me as, Jack’s boy.
When you go home, who are you?