The Whistler
Memories of my childhood home all begin the same – my Dad with a whistle on his lips. He whistled constantly, always happy, upbeat tunes. In fact, I can’t remember many occasions in which my father wasn’t whistling.
When we were young, we used to love taking walks with Dad in the small Illinois town where he grew up. He’d whistle Big Band tunes as we bounced along beside him and, as we passed the various landmarks, he would share stories of his youthful mischief-making. Rushville’s resident delinquent.
“That’s where we hoisted the Model T into the tree. Was my teacher ever surprised when he came out the next morning to find his pride and joy missing … until he looked up.”
Continue Reading