“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” - I’m about three years old and sick with the flu or something like it. My daddy has pulled one of the rocking chairs with the orangy-red cushions up near the opened doors of the fireplace. I’m restless and moody and mad at the world for making me sick. He curls me into his lap and starts rocking at a slow, steady, and soothing pace. He picks up the thin blue Kiwanis Club song booklet. It’s not fancy. It’s held together with two staples. Even when I got older I would never make out the connection between that book and the Kiwanis club, but whatever the books intended purpose, I was glad for its existance. Daddy flipped to the page, or perhaps by that time the book opened to the correct page of its own accord. I feel better. I feel loved. I feel very luck to have such a wonderful daddy with such a beautiful voice. “Where have all the flowers gone? Young girls picked them every one. When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?”
