When I was a small boy my family often vacationed at my Grandfather’s lake house in the Northwood of Wisconsin. I have many fond memories of the times I have spent at the lake, and the following narrative is just one of them.

One morning I woke up to the sound of my dad getting out of bed. He was, at that time, a young man, healthy, vibrant, funny, and full of life. He noticed that I was starting to move around and he held his finger to his lips indicating that I should be quite, something that I was not very good at. I climbed out of my sleeping bag, pulled on my socks and my untied shoes, and went to his side. He tousled my hair and motioned for me to follow him. We tiptoed past my mom and my grandparents as we made our way to the front door. A moment later we were looking at the glassy surface of Blockhouse Lake. My father then knelt down and tied my shoes, a skill I had yet to master. As he did I scanned the magnificent playground before me.

It was early and the light of the day was just starting to peak over the pine lined horizon. Thin wisps of fog hung low over the water. Although the wildlife in the Northwood is abundant, that morning it was unusually quite, with the exception of some loons making a low mournful call in the distance. Just off the rocks I could make out the ripples caused by fish moving through the reeds. At that moment all I wanted to do was to go down to the waters edge and throw some rocks.

"Johnny" my dad said in a hushed voice to get my attention. Again he motioned for me to follow him. Walking silently on a carpet of pine needles we made our way around the back of the house. He hopped in the drivers’ seat of our white Olds convertible, and tossed me over his lap into the passenger’s seat. He then started the gigantic engine and pulled slowly out on to the gravel road that ran along the shore of the lake.

"Daddy, where are we going?" I asked.

"We’re going to town" he replied. The town he was speaking of, Park Falls, is only seven miles from the cabin so we went there often to get supplies and food, or to just get out. As we crept down the gravel road Dad reached up and unlatched the convertible top from the front windshield. He then pushed a button on the dash of the car and the top folded itself neatly behind the back seat. The cool pine scented air rushed against my face. In order to get a better view I stood up with my back against the seat and moved in next to my dad. As we pulled out on the main road leading to Park Falls my dad reached down and turned on the radio. A minute later the Duke of Earl was blaring through the speakers and my dad was singing along to the best of his ability…At the time it didn’t seem so bad. I joined in during the chorus of the song "Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Duke, Duke..." When the song had ended I leaned into my dads ear.

"Daddy, who is the Duke of Earl?" I shouted over the wind and the radio.

"I am," he shouted back with a smile on his face "I am the Duke of Earl". I was amazed. I knew that my dad was a great man, but I didn’t know that people were singing songs about him. We continued to sing along with the radio until we reached Park Falls. As we pulled onto the town’s main street I noticed the smell of baked goods wafting through the air. My mouth started to water as my dad turned into a parking space right in front of the bakery.

The Electric Bakery was a humble establishment with a large storefront window that ran the length of the business. When dad let me out of the car I rushed to the window and pressed my face against it to see shelves were filled donuts and pastries of every kind. Dad walked up behind me, gently grabbed my hand and we went inside. As we walked into the bakery I noticed that the walls were filled with baked goods and supplies of every type, and on the wall behind the checkout counter there were loaves of freshly baked bread. Dad rang a bell on the counter and a middle aged lady appeared from the back room. She was wearing an apron that was covered with the evidence of her handy work.

"May I help you?" she asked with a thick Wisconsin accent. My dad motioned to the back wall.

"Could I please have a loaf of bread and some butter?" The lady, who was removing her apron, turned around and snatched a loaf of bread from the back wall and put it on the counter next to the cash register. She then reached under the counter and got a small container of softened butter. My dad tossed her some money and we headed out the door.

When we got back to the car Dad lifted me in and then sat down himself. He placed the loaf of bread in between us and opened it up. He then opened the container of butter and using his pocketknife spread it onto a couple of slices of bread. He handed me one and he took the other. I took up my position next to him and with the radio blaring we headed back to the lake. As we pulled out on to the road leading back to the lake the sun finally peaked up over the horizon and filled the sky with color. At that moment I loved my dad more than you can possibly know. I felt connected; I felt whole; and I felt loved.

There are moments in life that one looks back on with profound fondness. Those moments don’t really impact the person that you became. They don’t speak great spiritual truths. And they are often forgotten in the course of living life. They are like a warm fire on a cold winter night. For me one of those moments is standing in the front seat of a convertible with the top down, snuggled against my dad, eating a warm slice of freshly baked bread with melted butter on it.