They begin with "Hey Sweetheart" and end with "Love you, Daddy."

Every day, without fail, my father has written me a note on the back of his Page-A-Day calendar.  He collects them up for a few weeks, clips them together with a tiny silver bulldog clip the likes of which I have never seen anywhere else, and mails them to me.  This has been his habit for at least ten years which, roughly translated, equals 3,650 notes and 1,825 clips.  They've been sent to Little Rock, Arkansas and Grove City, Pennsylvania; Aberdeen, Scotland and Florence, Italy.

Those are the facts.

However, to my heart these little squares of paper are so much more:

They chronicle the day-to-day of my parents' lives:
     "went to Barnes and Noble and looked at magazines with Mama."
     "worked in the yard...crepe myrtle is blooming"
     "met the guys at McDonald's for coffee"
     "all this rain has been good for the grass; we saw the first robin"
     "had breakfast at Rexall Grill with Ken and Carol.  Wish you could have been there."
     "it was just a real good day"

Then there are the encouraging notes...
     "I'm sorry you had such a rough day."
     "You will do so well with that."
                    (what?  I can't remember, but it sure was good to be reminded of his faith in me)
     "You are a talented artist."
     "You and Nathan are such good parents."
     "Keep on trying, you can do it."

Other times, the notes chronicle events in my own life...
     finding out I was expecting a son
     moving to Scotland
     moving back from Scotland
     Nathan's new job
     decisions about graduate school
     art shows
     the occasional gardening tip.

And the most precious of all:
      "I am so proud of you."
     "You are a lovely young woman."
     "Kellan is lucky to have you for a mother."
     "I am so glad you're my daughter."

I haven't lived at home for quite some time, but these notes have kept me close.  Each one feels like a tiny stitch in a very long seam that I pray will go on and on and on.