The first move a teenage boy usually makes on a girl is to hold her hand. I wasn’t there, but I suspect that was the case for my dad and mom. Particularly, on that sunny day at Miller Park when, as my dad describes, mom was wearing black shorts and a yellow blouse.
I don’t recall them being big on public displays of affection. Maybe a kiss good-bye in the mornings before dad went to work, but I do remember hand holding. As a matter of fact, there are photos of them holding hands as they walk the crowded streets of St. Louis following another Cardinal winner.
I’ve seen them walk hand-in-hand on a Florida beach and on trails in Rocky Mountain National Park. And many people will remember them walking to their car following a grandchild’s ballgame. Lawn chair in one hand and their other hands clasp together.
A simple act of love. Holding hands. And so it was the last day they held hands. Dad lying in bed and mom holding his hand. She sat there stroking the back of his hand and relishing the strength and warmth in his grip. It gave her great comfort and I imagine it gave dad the same comfort and confidence to let go one last time and reach out for the hand of his Lord and Savior. A fitting transition for a couple of teenagers who spent more than 75 years holding hands.
Until next time…