My parents never read books about parenting, and they never instructed their six children on how to behave. They modeled it for us, and then corrected us when we goofed up. Dad was only involved in one club – the Knights of Columbus – so that he could mostly be at home with his kids. Mom worked at a dry cleaner because they let her off work before we got home from school each day. Dad always invited me to help with his little household projects. Mom was a shy Iowa farm girl who never liked wearing dresses. Dad was a city boy who loved to tease her, and they smooched in the kitchen while she was cooking dinner. Summers were hot in east Texas, and on some nights we all slept on the floor in the living room because it was the only room with an AC unit. Those were my favorite times because Mom and Dad slept right there next to us. My parents never judged anyone by the color of their skin or the religion they professed. When Dad suffered a loss he never blamed someone else or claimed that he had been cheated. He took us all camping each year in the big Oldsmobile with a canvas tent strapped on top of the car. I was 24 years old when Mom, dying of cancer, touched my face from her hospital bed and remarked at how I had a few pimples again, just like when I was a teenager. I cried because I couldn’t imagine my world without her in it. Mom and Dad had each other, and somehow that was enough. If you want to raise happy children, live a good marriage. It is not too hard. It mostly just means keeping your promises. – – – Fr. Jim