SONG PLAYING: "ALWAYS"
THIS PAGE ALONE WILL BE FOR NONE OTHER, BUT FAMOUS SPEAKER "BOB PERKS". I WILL PLACE A NEW STORY HERE EACH WEEK! YOU WILL FIND EACH AND EVERY STORY THAT I PLACE HERE TO BE VERY ENTERTAINING AND VERY INSPIRATIONAL AND YOU WILL WALK AWAY WITH A MUCH FULLER HEART. PLEASE, READ AND ENJOY!
"I wish you enough"
written by Bob Perks
"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough "Hello's" to get you through the final "Goodbye
I AM SO VERY HAPPY TO HAVE BEEN GIVEN PERMISSION TO USE STORIES WRITTEN BY BOB PERKS ON MY SITE! IT IS A GREAT HONOR TO ME TO BE ABLE TO DISPLAY ANYTHING WRITTEN BY THIS WONDERFUL MAN! THANK YOU MR. PERKS!
All stories copyright 2005 Bob Perks
"I am my father"
by Bob Perks
I started this at least five times. I write whole stories in less time than it took to begin this one. I typed a few words and stopped. The white spaces, the big, blank look to the screen challenged me.
Still, I struggled with finding the right words to create a loving Father's Day story about my dad.
Not because I didn't love him, I did.
He was filled with a lot of resentment which developed into stubborness and a "don't tell me" attitude.
I can honestly say that everything I am today I owe to him.
I just paused and re-read that statement. You might misunderstand its intent.
Most everything I am today is just the opposite of what he was.
I love openly. He couldn't say the words "I love you" until very late in life, long after he really should have.
I give freely. No one ever gave to him, so he thought, thus he never gave in return.
I trust everyone. He trusted no one.
I admit when I'm wrong. He never was wrong.
But I respected him. Which in real terms means I sometimes feared him.
So why do I miss him so much?
Why do I cry at the thought of him being dead?
Because I am my father.
I hear him in some of the things I say. I feel him in some of the things I do.
When I sing and come to a part that squeezes my heart, I stumble over the words, teary eyed and choking back the emotions.
So did he.
That alone is enough for me to love him the way I do. For music is my soul. Words, my heart.
I believe that, deep down inside that man I called "Pop," was a spirit of love for life and appreciation for all God had given him.
But he'd never admit it.
He died in July, 1998. Still there are times when I hear something, see something and think, "I should call Pop."
The emptiness that reality brings also delivers a snap shot memory of him. One I hold dear to my heart.
He hugged me. I wasn't reaching for him, urging him closer. He stood up, walked over and hugged me. Oddly enough I didn't know how to respond. Awkwardly I fumbled with my hands as I reached around him. Then I shook. I mean I really started shaking not out of fear, but at the thought that he was capable of doing this and I never knew it.
He wasn't a big man except in his own eyes. Even though the years favored me as I stood taller than he, now looking down at him, I found the whole thing almost frightening.
Like I had slew the dragon and now I had nothing to battle.
Oh, yes. One other thing. He wrote a note to me that I have tacked to the wall. It simply says, "You are a fine son. Love, Pop"
Yes, I am crying. The dragon is dead and this boy needs his dad.
I am my father.
"I believe in you!"