Today was my father's birthday. He would have been 98 this year. He died a mature man of 67. Hardly a long life. Hardly enough time to enjoy the years ahead. Hardly enough time to learn who this mamma's man/boy was back then, and certainly not enough time for me to fully appreciate what he was and what he did for me.
Growing up in rural Michigan, my dad was the fourth son of a family of eight. He was the second one born here in the states. Back in Holland, where my grandfather was from, they were gardeners, caretakers. Here in America, they became farmers.
I'm certain he never understood me, a somewhat wild, free-spirited 60s/70s kid. I just wish sometimes, that he could have lived to see the man I've become. Although he's been gone for over 30 years, I probably feel closer to him now that I'm 50 than I did when I was 20. I know I understand him much more, too.
Happy birthday, dad.
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