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EVERY YEAR MY FATHER would get cards, all in a pile. His birthday was June 11th, and then always right on its heels was Father's Day. A card came in the mail one day, he pulled out his trusty pocket knife and sliced open the envelope. He read the card, chuckled or made some other acknowledgement of the sentiment expressed, and showed it to my mother. Then he walked to the broom closet, opened the door and dropped the card into the trash can. My mother, who later told me of his actions, was appalled at this behavior. "Dan!" she said, "you are throwing it away?!" A bit chagrined, he asked, "Well, what am I supposed to do with it?"

It was up to my mother, then, to explain the rationale for saving the card, at least for a little while, so he could, well, you know--look at it some more. It simply didn't make sense to Daddy, who was used to assessing things for their practicality and usefulness, to save the card for future reference. "I've already read it," he said, "I don't need to read it again. I know what it says."

Of course, he certainly didn't mind that Mama dug the card out of the trash and placed it, along with the others he received, in a little basket on the table by his easy chair. And there the stack of good wishes sat, at his elbow, for some length of time. He likely didn't notice when they quietly disappeared.

Mama no doubt looked at the cards again before she carried them away. But do you suppose that she carried them away to the trash can?

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In the case of all the Father's Day cards, and any of the birthday cards that happened to likewise come from his offspring, each year she put them away in bundles and boxes for safekeeping; there they stayed for the remainder of his life.  And after that...

well, here I sit, wishing quite fervently I could recycle one of those cards!

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