Today would have been my father’s ninety-seventh birthday. He died in 1987 at age seventy-one. My family always remembers this date with fond memories of a man that loved his family dearly, worked hard every day, and never said much. He liked to fiddle around in his shop, fish, go boating in his sixteen-foot wooden Lyman, eat homemade ice cream, and read or nap in his old brown recliner.
When the kids, all five of us girls, left home and started families of our home, we’d get together for holidays, cook-outs, and birthdays. My dad was always excited to see us and gave us each a big hug. When we walked in without knocking (It still was home), he would say in his joking manner, “Who dat?” Then, he would give us a big hug and joked, “It’s about time you got here.”
I can’t wait to see him again when I get to heaven, and I bet he’ll be there to greet me the same way. I thank God for giving me the father he gave me. I learned so much from him. Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you always.
Photo “Man Fishing” courtesy of Tom Curtis