Jacksonville, Florida

Two-year-old Tony was visiting grandparents in Arkansas. Our second baby was past its due date. My husband and I had just bought a small two-bedroom house located near Jacksonville Beach. On August 18, 1957 the last packing box was loaded and a moving truck was ready to pull away from the old apartment when I felt the first early warning signal. Five hours later I was counting my daughter's toes. We named her Patti. She was beautiful.

One month later, standing near the tracks, holding my baby girl, I watched my 58-year-old father step down from a train with Tony in his arms. The scene is forever etched in memory. People surging to and fro ...Train whistles blowing ... Steam hissing ... Daddy, reaching to pull us all into a laughing huddle. When confusion cleared, Tony was in my arms and Daddy was holding Patti. He held her for three days. The entire length of his visit.

One day we went to the beach and Daddy, carrying Patti, strolled back and forth in full view of all sun bathers, stopping to brag shamelessly if they showed the smallest interest in her beauty... or, sometimes, even if they didn't. He might as well have been wearing one of those tee shirts screaming, "ASK ME ABOUT MY GRANDDAUGHTER!"

I watched from beneath an umbrella as Daddy sprawled on the sand, cradling Patti in the crook of one arm, always careful to keep her on the shady side of his body, while with his free hand, he helped Tony build bigger and better sand castles.

Those of you who knew my father only after he'd grown old can't imagine him healthy, youthful and strong, but he was all those things and more. Before we left the beach that day, he swam way out beyond the breakers. Perhaps he sensed he'd never swim again ... or see an ocean.

Fifty-one years have passed since Patti's grandfather stepped down from the train and gathered her into his arms for their first meeting. If he could see her today, he'd smile and nod approval.