“When you teach your son, you teach your son’s son.”
Today’s story is contributed by Bob Meadows.
I look at my father, I look at my son, and I understand the privilege that was handed to me, and the responsibility that I have accepted.
I had a phenomenal role model for fatherhood. Now I have to be one.
Bob’s dad, Bob, and Xavier
I am black. My father is black. My son is black. Most black boys — black children — grow up without their fathers in the home. Most black boys — black children — grow up with mothers who are not married. The married-to-mom black father is the rarest of parents.
My father and mother celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary in February. They married, had three children, and stayed married. It was not, as foolish people say, “the times.” Plenty of the couples my parents partied with back in the 60s and 70s split up. READ MORE
The earliest memory I have of my father is one of me as a young boy holding his hand by his two last fingers as we walked together. His hands seemed so large. His fingers were all I could actually grip.
A young Tom and his dad at the zoo.
My father was a bread deliveryman. I remember the times when he would stop by the house in the early morning on those cold days when I was home from school over Christmas break. I would ride on the floor of that bread truck as he made deliveries to the stores. I don’t remember if those old trucks even had heaters. It didn’t matter. The smell and warmth from the bread that had just come from the bakery ovens would both make my mouth water and keep me warm at the same time.
In high school I became interested in athletics. My father would attend all my games. READ MORE