I was going to call this post “My Father Lives in My Compost Bin” … or even “Piling Poop While Talking to Dad” … I think he’d like that last idea the best. 😉 I still remember the first time I exclaimed ‘sh&%!’ in his presence as a teenager … He suggested I might try to say ‘manure’ instead. I don’t think that is why he hangs out at our manure bin though. But he does meet up with me there almost every day. Dad passed away seven years ago now. Sometimes it seems a lot longer … other times like it was yesterday. I’m glad that I can still hold his hand in my heart. I can hear his voice. Feel his hugs. And know what he would answer to most of my questions. I do enjoy spending time with him still. And I know that he would have got a real kick out of my sister and I entering various art contests at this summer’s fair. Here we are – ‘old gals’ in our fifties – still enjoying spreading out the pastels, or the paints to capture the essence of something we’ve seen or photographed. Dad spent a lot of time once he retired dabbling in painting. I do enjoy the ones we have hanging in our home. Thanks Dad! For passing along the quirky art genes. We’re enjoying them!