Rob

My father is an outdoorsman, and one of the sports he likes is hunting with a bow and arrow. He used to practice in his backyard, shooting arrows into a hale bale with a target pinned to it.

My daughter was two years old at the time. Her favorite Disney movie was Robin Hood, with the dashing animated fox as Robin, who never missed a shot with his bow and arrow.


She began to call my dad Robin Hood. She of course was Maid Marion. My mother wondered, if Sugarplum was Maid Marion, who was she then? Sugarplum pronounced her Lady Cluck, head lady-in-waiting.

Robin Hood stuck, and gradually became shortened to Rob. Often the first grandchild names the grandparents, and so it was with us; my sons call their grandfather Rob too. I don't think they've ever even asked why! (Fortunately my mother did not turn into Grandma Cluck. She's Grandma Toppie, but that's a whole different story.)

My children adore their Rob. He will always go for one more hike, he can identify all types of animal tracks and scat in the forest, and he will let them get wet every time. He's a cave explorer, campfire builder, master play-wrestler, toy put-togetherer, and makes a mean bowl of Cheerios for breakfast.

Rob and Sugarplum

Rob and Honey Bear

Rob and Shark Boy.

(Shark is blurry, but Dad's face is the story here.)

The kids have Robin Hood for a grandad. What could be cooler than that?

Happy 65th birthday Dad/Rob!

We love you.

Training a new Robin Hood.