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and which now makes a perfect perch for an after-bath preening.
And I think how much he would have enjoyed watching Duncan grow up, playing fetch with the rubber ball and taking long walks through the fields.
I remember how Duncan greeted Dad when we arrived at the farm for his first visit. We opened the front gate and Duncan took off toward Dad, his tiny puppy legs working furiously as he bounded up the walk and took the three porch steps in one leap. Duncan was overjoyed to see him again, his tongue licking and his little tail wagging for all he was worth.
Dad has left all of us with many memories.
But he’s also left us with a legacy, which lives on inside all those whose lives Dad touched. Several years ago, when my grandmother died, Patrick O’Connell told me that there’s something —that legacy —which we can only discover after grandparents, and parents, are gone.
Patrick was right. That was true of my grandmother, and it’s true of my father.
Dad felt deeply about the importance of family. Although as a newspaper reporter he spent eight months of the year covering the Baltimore Orioles, and during much of my childhood he wag travelling, he was with us whenever he could be. His days off were spent with his family.
When we took vacations, they were usually to my mother’s birthplace in southern Virginia. My grandmother’s pond was where we learned to fish. Dad practiced patience, quietly unraveling the “bird’s nests” that his two little boys got in their lines, pulling the lures out of trees, trying to free them from the snags we hooked on sunken logs.
Though he spent his entire life in Baltimore, he loved the country so much that my parents bought the family farm from my grandmother 12 years ago. Since then,
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