Papi Butch Day and the

It's March 6th, two weeks after my birthday, so that means it is my father's special day (and I am hoping the card I sent last week arrives in the mailbox today -  perfect timing). I know there's not too much he wants any mor, except for the itching and the pain of his shingles to disappear. I wish I could make that happen and even more so that I could be in Syracuse to sing a few rounds of the birthday song. I also wish I had the magical power to keep my mother from nagging at him for just one day (I'm sure he'd love that, too - but it ain't gonna happen).

Instead, I send my father warm wishes of fishing on Oneida Lake and  drum beats of Sherburne parades. I send sunsets at the St. Lawrence River and a fire for his pit in the back yard. I send fertilizer for his lawn and gas for the lawnmower to cut it down. I send pooper scoopers for the piles from all the damn dogs that visit his yard and many memories of the garden that used to break that poop down.

I send him little league games and color guard shows, band competitions, and beers at the Clam Bar. I send Chubby's, and Lewis's, clam chowder, and Buck's Seasoning. I send a day with Aunt Bobbie and Uncle Milford, and memories of Grandpa Ken and Grandma Vera.

And of course, I send all the love from all of us in Connecticut and play him the theme song from Mash.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAY. 

If my card doesn't make it on time, let this be a placeholder.

LOVE YOU!