My father, like his father, was an ‘old time’ family doctor — he did it all. When we were young — five, six, seven, dad would wake one of us in the middle of the night and ask if we wanted to go with him as he made a house/farm call. I was six when one night about 1am he woke me and asked if I wanted to go with him. He drove us into the country to a farm house. I waited in the car and he went in. He was gone for some time (he had gone to help deliver a baby, as it turned out). It was day-break when he emerged. The farmer/husband/father was following my father and he was carrying a bushel basked full of green beans. The beans were placed in the trunk of the car. After my father shook the farmer’s hand and said a few words to him, he opened the car door, entered and settled in. I asked him what the beans were for. He turned to me and said that they were his payment. I then said, “You’re a doctor, don’t you get paid lots of money?” My father was a man of few words, literally. He turned to me and looked at me with the ‘father look’ that announced that I was going to receive a ‘lesson.’ He looked deeply into my eyes and said, “In this life you don’t serve others for money!” He turned away and turned the key; the engine started and we drove home. This was one of the many ‘servant’ gifts that my father gave me during his life-time. And the longer I live the more deeply I appreciate this one gift in particular.
Happy father’s day, gentle reader — if you are a father, I celebrate you. If you are not, then I celebrate your father.
Searcher-Seeker 
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