Sunday Up The Braes

It’s a year since I’ve been here. And Father’s Day has rolled around once more, taking me back to early memories and to one of my first posts.
My husband is like my dad in his love of nature and the memories he helps to create for our children, giving of himself and his time and love.
To all dads today I wish you a wonderful Father’s Day. What you do makes the difference in how we remember a father’s love.
I remember mine so clearly.


Sunday comes.

We fetch our summer buckets; gaily coloured, red, blue, yellow and green. In a while, the plastic pails will hold Autumn’s fruits. Dad holds hands with one or other of us, alternating as each child takes a turn to race ahead. We skip along, stopping to check the hedgerows, trying to spot the nests that are hidden there. And, when we do, a proud cry goes up.

‘I’ve found one!’

We count the eggs but do not touch. We have been warned. None of us wants to be responsible for the mother bird’s non-return. Dad’s previous instructions are always bidden; his wisdom heeded, if not always completely understood.

We examine the markings on the eggs and note their colour. Dad identifies them. Sometimes we are proud to remember their names from earlier lessons. We scan the skies for the parents and wait quietly some way off to see…

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