On this date in 1951, my father was born. In the sixty-three years he roamed this earth he had many adventures. Adventures I’m sure would have continued had his heart not beat it’s last beat in 2014.
This day has become a solemn day for me. Primarily because it was always a day of excitement before the old man kicked the bucket. I loved celebrating my dad’s day of birth. I no longer have that same feeling of excitement.
My father worked hard, and lived even harder. The tales he told of eating piles of mashed potatoes at the Westinghouse cafeteria, boxes of girl scout cookies or entire boxes of Twinkies for lunch were plentiful. While I didn’t know it when I was younger really, my father also smoked until he passed. His last pack of cigarettes are still in his truck where he left them. I tried to get my parents to switch to vaping, but neither of them enjoyed it.
Knowing the things that led to his downfall, have given me clear signs of what to avoid. I used to have my own snack cake addiction, Zebra cakes to be exact. I used to drink soft drinks like it was going out of style. I no longer do that.
He was the kind of man that never met a stranger, and it annoyed the hell out of me. It’s the exact reason why I am not as open. Quick visits to the grocery store or gas station could take hours.
I often wonder what dad would think of the life I have rebuilt from the ashes of his passing and my eventual divorce. If he is proud of his one and only child. It’s a bit of torture that goes through my head each and every day.
Anyway, happy birthday old man. I love you, we didn’t say that enough to each other. We had our own way, and I don’t think that can be captured with someone else again.