When I learned of the death of Shirley Temple Black last week, I did not feel sorrow for she lived a long and full life. For me, the news evoked memories of the rare occasions that my family dined out. It was not that my parents spent every night at home, but they were old school when it came to taking kids out to nice restaurants. When we did go out, I saw it as a special occasion and knew I was supposed to act like “an adult.”

In this child’s mind, being an adult meant ordering a fancy drink. It being a special occasion meant that Coke would not suffice. So, when the waiter came to the table I bubbled up with excitement and ordered in the clearest and proudest of voices a Shirley Temple. I loved the fact that it came in a fancy glass. I equally loved the Maraschino cherry and savored as much as I could that single bite.

The fond memories of those “fancy dinners” may be one reason while I always liked Shirley Temple. As an adult, my affection did not fade as she transitioned from child star into a respected diplomat.

Just as Shirley Temple reminds me of Big Girl Dinners, every time I see a yellow golf sweater, I envision my father sitting on the couch in the den of our house in Cincinnati watching whatever sporting event was on television on a given Sunday. Too young to appreciate the pleasure of watching football or golf, I was not too young to enjoy positioning myself next to him or on his lap. Just sitting there was enough to delight me. It is not complicated. In fact, it is quite simple. What little girl does not enjoy a little bit of quiet time with their dad?

Of course, not all times were so quiet, which brings me to the Christmas tree lights. Or, more specifically, the Curse Of The Christmas Tree Lights. As I have mentioned before, my dad, like my brother and I, are quick to temper. And really quick to temper when it comes to uncooperative inanimate objects. Each Christmas featured the same epic showdown – Dad versus the multiple strings of Christmas lights. I don’t think he ever won.

The showdown began the same way each year with my mom suggesting she take over the lighting duties. Her suggestion was naturally met with my dad’s stubborn insistence that “he had it covered.” Round One was the untangling of the lights. Round Two was finding the errant bulb that was conspiring against my father. The battles were marked by words that he probably should not have been uttering – or screaming. He would throw the string of lights to the ground and curse. He would take a drink of whatever he had available and curse. He would return to battle and curse. Every year – lather, rinse, repeat. But he would not be defeated by the lights. Just by cancer.

And that is why Shirley Temple, yellow sweaters and Christmas tree lights continue to hold special places in my heart. Not only was my father alive in those memories, he was living life. They remind me that while death would not wait, my dad did not spend his time waiting to die. He lived and he lived with passion and a fullness of spirit. And I am grateful to have had the pleasure in sharing in part of that life.