Now to return to the difficulty many have in saying, “I love you.” Let me say that Pa was one such person. He chose to show his love and affection in other ways. Yes, I remember them well.

I started carrying a newspaper route at the age of eight. In Indiana, in November, the sun sets early in the afternoon. By 5:30 p.m. it is quite dark. The people were not blessed in those days with modern street lighting. You could expect a street light only at every other intersection, and that being the equivalent of a 200-watt bulb encased in a globe.

The evening was a typical, cold November night as I neared the end of my paper route, seven blocks from home. The papers, which were trucked into Mishawaka from South Bend, had been late in arriving, and I was going to be late for supper. As I entered one of the darkest stretches of West Thirteenth Street, I suddenly began to hear footsteps approaching quickly from behind.

Genuine fear kept me from breaking into a run. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, this person was behind me. I felt a hand slip into my mackinaw coat pocket. And the most loving words I could have ever heard were said.

“Ralph, we missed you at supper, so I came to see if I could help.”

From my pocket I pulled out a new mouth harp, something I had wanted for some time. No, Pa could not generate the courage to say, “I love you,” but through his actions, there was no doubt in my mind.

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Copyright 1990 by Ralph Ackenhusen