Ode to Byron Carr
The joy of being tossed into the air and crashing down into the Ouachita River is my earliest memory of my dad. During his and my mom's "Walden Days," I spent my time climbing trees, hiking, picking flowers, eating blackberries from the bush, playing with frogs and snakes and bugs, and the like. It was a happy childhood. Twenty-plus years later my Dad remains one of my favorite people, and, as those who know him will attest, I'm a pretty lucky daughter. In addition to being an great cook, gardener and photographer, my dad's the total bon vivant. Good food and drink, music, company, and jokes are his pleasure in life, and several times a year I visit New Orleans and share in it with him. Now, enough with the sentimental exposition. This year I didn't give my dad a gift for Father's Day and I feel guilty about it. Honestly though, I didn't know what material trinket would surpass being home for a visit in gift awesomeness. As an alternative, I've written a tribute blog as a conduit of posting something my Dad likes: this sweet Doobie Brothers song. Love you, Dad.