On this Civil War trip, The Rock rides shotgun

My dad, John Banks Sr., died on July 22, 2016. His spirit lives on in "The Rock."

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Eight years ago, on my way back home from a trip to Gettysburg, I stopped in Quakertown, Pa., at the house where my dad grew up with his mom and two aunts. The old place on South Main Street had a new owner, and my great-aunts Lena and Bonnie had long since passed on. I hadn't been there in decades.

Not knowing what to expect, I knocked on the door and was invited in. The brick house, built in the early 19th century, looked much smaller than I remember it as a kid. Of course, everything seems so much bigger when you're 10 years old.

There's a lot of our family history in that house, mostly great memories. The smell of Thanksgiving dinners and my great-aunts' molasses cookies. Unwrapping Christmas presents with my brother and sister in the living room next to that massive, ancient shortwave radio. Peering through the window the day my parents brought my sister home for the first time after she was born.

There was tangible stuff, too. One of the slats on the staircase still had a crack in it, courtesy of an 8-year-old me horsing around. Even some of the repair tape Mom and I used to fix it was still barely there. In the dining room, toy guns that my dad played with as a kid were hung on a wall. Jim Edwards, the current owner, found them in the attic. He offered to give me the old playthings, but my dad insisted they belonged with the house.

Before I left, Jim took me out to the small garden. He said he had something else that belonged to my dad. After searching for a few minutes, he pulled from the ground a square stone, about the size of a fist, with the initials "J.B." and "1948" carved into it. That was the handiwork of my dad and his brother when they were teenagers. I gladly took that back home with me.

Dad, our family’s rock, died three years ago. Stroke did him in at 80. He had a great run, but we miss him every day.

On Saturday afternoon, The Rock returned to my hands after an extended absence. (It’s a long story.) At 4:30 this morning, I couldn’t stop thinking about my Dad and The Rock. Before heading out to a battlefield here in the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia, I plopped the big stone on the front seat, letting it ride shotgun. It feels like my dad, who sparked my love of history, is riding right along with me, And so we're off -- to Cross Keys, Port Republic and Civil War points unknown.

Thanks for everything, Dad.

Here's hoping on this special day you have your Rock, too.

Enjoy the journey. Always.

And Happy Father’s Day!