ten billion butterfly sneezes

This is the 89^th anniversary of my dad’s birth. He passed away nearly 24 years ago, just when he was getting wiser and smarter every day, at least in my eyes. He had just turned 65, and was making retirement plans, and looking forward to his emeritus years.

I cried when he died, out of shock at the suddenness of it, and out of shock at my instantaneous promotion to the elder male of our family. I cried because I was worried about Mom, and how she’d hold up by herself; my little bride and I were living in California at the time. I cried because I somehow felt responsible for everyone’s well being, and wasn’t sure I could bring anything to the table.

As the years rolled by, many was the time I wished I could pick up the phone and talk to Dad. Mom did an excellent job by herself, and things turned out well; she had more grit and composure than I’d have imagined initially. She lived in the family house, bought at what to Dad and her was a princely sum in 1961, until she passed away on July 30, 1999. My little bride and I moved coast-to-coast in that time, following an endless series of computer related jobs.

I don’t know where I’m going with this; I still miss Dad, and occasionally ponder what he’d be like if he were still alive. He could be a robust, twinkle-eyed 89 year old; frail perhaps, but mentally sharp. Or he could be in a home, physically alive, but unaware of our comings and goings to visit him, which we’d be obligated to do. I’m not so sure I could have handled the latter scenario. I’m thankful that Dad is with the Lord, and I need not worry about visiting him in some facility where he wouldn’t know me. Maybe that’s selfish of me; so be it.

It is sobering when I think that I’m just a few years shy of Dad’s age when he died. Maybe that’s what I’m trying to say.

-k-