Eighty-four

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Even the Fortunate Warrior has a father. Today was his birthday, and yes, he is 84.

He’s been through a lot, even more than me. He came into this world as the final (seventh) child of his parents Eva and Abner. The Great Depression had just begun when he was born in 1930. His father had lost everything, foreclosed by the time my Dad was born. The family would soon be on the move, finally settling in southern Indiana. The need to find work and later WWII would scatter his older siblings to the four corners of the world. I have an uncle who celebrated his ninetieth birthday in December. My dad and uncle are the last of their generation. I am so very grateful to have these men in my life.

These men have both known poverty and very hard work. I swear both of them would be happier farming, and complaining about farming, if either of them still owned a farm. Both of these men still drive. Vans are popular. I’m sure my dad’s van antedates Henry Ford, while my uncle’s van is a nifty Sprinter Class B RV.

When I called my dad this morning he said that he (himself) and my uncle could hit 100. I’m not sure I’m ready to face having a parent in my life when I’m 70. If it happens it will be a blessing.

 

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