'Twas a very hot day for attending a baseball game, although after you were in it for awhile, it wasn't so bad. (Keep in mind that it was somewhere in the 90s.) A nice breeze tended to come down, and by the end of the game, our seats were in the shade. Which isn't to say I didn't sweat a lot.
With the way the Reds are stinking it up, it was probably just as well that my dad and I met in Cincinnati for only two games. Of course, as I realized last night, it was nice that we were able to meet up for even one. This wasn't something that either of my parents could do with their fathers when they were my age now. My mother was in college when her dad died. My dad must have been in his twenties when his dad passed.
I don't bring this up to bum out the room or myself, although it's certainly a bittersweet thought and not the sort of awareness one wishes to get while trying to fall asleep. (Yep, that's when it occurred to me.) If anything, I am now able to appreciate more the time I have with my parents, even in those instances when they get on my nerves. They never really had an adulthood with their fathers. I've been fortunate to have one with both of mine.
I've always been on good terms with my parents and never really had the sorts of major issues with them that I sometimes hear other people having. It's what I accepted as normal, just as I reflected that my dad must have done stuff like this with his father...except wait, no he didn't. To a certain extent I imagine that such a relationship might mean I take them for granted. How I was raised and get along with my family is more or less how it's supposed to be, right? Perhaps, but it doesn't necessarily turn out that way in many families.
Funny how what was supposed to be a short overnight trip to see a couple ballgames and which featured probably more talk about the team than anything else--such a cliché--gave me a greater perspective on how I relate to my parents.