THIS PAGE ALONE WILL BE FOR NONE OTHER, BUT FAMOUS SPEAKER "BOB PERKS".  I WILL PLACE A NEW STORY HERE EACH WEEK!  YOU WILL FIND EACH AND EVERY STORY THAT I PLACE HERE TO BE VERY ENTERTAINING AND VERY INSPIRATIONAL AND YOU WILL WALK AWAY WITH A MUCH FULLER HEART. PLEASE, READ AND ENJOY!


"I wish you enough"
written by Bob Perks

"I wish you enough sun to keep your attitude bright.
I wish you enough rain to appreciate the sun more.
I wish you enough happiness to keep your spirit alive.
I wish you enough pain so that the smallest joys in life appear much
bigger.
I wish you enough gain to satisfy your wanting.
I wish you enough loss to appreciate all that you possess.
I wish enough "Hello's" to get you through the final "Goodbye


I AM SO VERY HAPPY TO HAVE BEEN GIVEN PERMISSION TO USE STORIES WRITTEN BY BOB PERKS ON MY SITE! IT IS A GREAT HONOR TO ME TO BE ABLE TO DISPLAY ANYTHING WRITTEN BY THIS WONDERFUL MAN! THANK YOU MR. PERKS!

All stories copyright 2005 Bob Perks
Today's Message:
"I am my father"
by Bob Perks
Bob@BobPerks.com

I started this at least five times.  I write whole stories in less time than it took to begin this one.  I typed a few words and stopped.  The white spaces, the big, blank look to the screen challenged me.

Still, I struggled with finding the right words to create a loving Father's Day story about my dad.

Not because I didn't love him, I did.

He was filled with a lot of resentment which developed into stubborness and a "don't tell me" attitude.

I can honestly say that everything I am today I owe to him.

I just paused and re-read that statement.  You might misunderstand its intent.

Most everything I am today is just the opposite of what he was.

I love openly.  He couldn't say the words "I love you" until very late in life, long after he really should have.

I give freely.  No one ever gave to him, so he thought, thus he never gave in return.

I trust everyone.  He trusted no one.

I admit when I'm wrong.  He never was wrong.

But I respected him.  Which in real terms means I sometimes feared him.

So why do I miss him so much?

Why do I cry at the thought of him being dead?

Because I am my father.

I hear him in some of the things I say.  I feel him in some of the things I do.

When I sing and come to a part that squeezes my heart, I stumble over the words, teary eyed and choking back the emotions.

So did he.

That alone is enough for me to love him the way I do.  For music is my soul.  Words, my heart.

I believe that, deep down inside that man I called "Pop," was a spirit of love for life and appreciation for all God had given him.

But he'd never admit it.

He died in July, 1998.  Still there are times when I hear something, see something and think, "I should call Pop."

The emptiness that reality brings also delivers a snap shot memory of him.  One I hold dear to my heart.

He hugged me.  I wasn't reaching for him, urging him closer.  He stood up, walked over and hugged me.  Oddly enough I didn't know how to respond.  Awkwardly I fumbled with my hands as I reached around him.  Then I shook.  I mean I really started shaking not out of fear, but at the thought that he was capable of doing this and I never knew it.

He wasn't a big man except in his own eyes.  Even though the years favored me as I stood taller than he, now looking down at him, I found the whole thing almost frightening.

Like I had slew the dragon and now I had nothing to battle.

Oh, yes.  One other thing.  He wrote a note to me that I have tacked to the wall.  It simply says, "You are a fine son.  Love, Pop"

Yes, I am crying.  The dragon is dead and this boy needs his dad.

I am my father.

"I believe in you!"
Bob Perks
Bob@BobPerks.com