So this post doesn’t really have anything to do with writing. And it’s not YA. It’s a post to celebrate my father’s life: he is 90 years old today (Yes, you read that right. He had me late).
To me, he’s the man who tucked me in at night when I was little and sang me to sleep, his voice crackling on the chorus of “Massa Dear”. He’s the one who entertained my best friend and I by writing our names backwards on fancy paper name tags. He’s the one taught me a real man is gentle with children, respectful to his wife and isn’t afraid to unplug a blocked toilet.
But he’s also living history: A young boy who learned to love lard sandwiches during the Great Depression. An artistic airplane mechanic in WWII who painted the naked woman onto the 84th bomb group’s B-24 bomber. A father of six who managed to give his kids a happy childhood on a Parks & Rec department salary. A man whose life has spanned nearly a century.
There is so much I do not know about my dad’s past. So much that I never bothered to ask because he was just “Dad”; I guess I never saw him as his own person. But I won’t let another year go by without finding out who he was, really, before I came along. There are stories there to be told, to be understood, to be cherished.
What are some memories that should not be forgotten?
Love you, Dad. Happy Birthday.