Happy Birthday

Happy Birthday to my dad. This is the 69th celebration of his birth.

I have promised myself to make this post a real celebration of him, and not a maudlin wallow in sad remembrances. These are some of the things I loved best about him:

The expression on his face when, while reading the paper or a book, he would look at us over the top of it, if something struck him as silly or ridiculous. If it was something really silly or ridiculous, the look would be accompanied by a "whaaaat?" and the "I'm laughing despite myself" laugh.

When he had something to share with us, something that had really tickled his aren't-people-amusing bone, he would tap his finger on the table top. "Did you know..." tap tap tap... "Have you heard what they're up to now..." tap tap tap...

No matter what madness was going on in the house, he could sit in his chair, engrossed in a book or a crossword.

He was always reading something. He read with discipline, one book at a time, from cover to cover. He read serious histories, especially dealing with WWII, and he remembered all the details. He also enjoyed mysteries, having no time for an author who left loopholes or had a weak plot.

Watching a thriller or a mystery with him was like sitting a final exam. Guaranteed he would ask you after the closing credits, "So, what was wrong with that?" or, "Why couldn't it have happened that way?" He always grumped if we watched a romantic comedy, complaining that the only kissing allowed was at the end of westerns, between the cowboy and his horse.

He loved John Wayne movies. He would watch them over and over again, taking great delight in quoting from Rooster Cockburn, "who don't you go paint your nails, or crochet, or whatever it is you females do?" (John Wayne to Katharine Hepburn)

Planes held an endless fascination for him. He read aviation magazines, and played flight simulation games. He knew the aeronautical specs of just about any plane out there, and would grill us when one flew overhead, "what kind of plane is that?" Invariably my answer would be: a big one.

He had one wallet for most of his life, used the same comb for as long as I can remember, and wore his slippers through to the floor. He didn't often spend money on himself, but he had very good taste ($$) and really enjoyed nice things: a fine wine, a good meal, a well-cut suit...and spam. I know. It always amused us, too!

He really enjoyed music, from The Rolling Stones to Opera, Blue Grass to Big Band. He liked to sing along too: Santa Lucia, I smell your feet-a. The man couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but he sang with gusto anyway. I loved to hear him croon.

He liked to cuddle. I would get right up beside him, and tuck myself in under his armpit. That was the safest place in the world.

He took great delight in doing things mom would freak about if she knew... when she wasn't home... whether it was chopping wood with a machete or adding hot sauce to the pasta.

Communists and engineers were at the top of his go-to list whenever something went wrong. "You communist!" or, "Must have been an engineer that came up with this one!" were often heard around the house. Recently, China was added to the list and we were strictly admonished to never buy something made in China.

Samples. Food samples, that is. He loved them, and would graze, until we had to remind him that two was a sample, three was lunch.

Boats. He dreamed of being on a boat, having a boat...me buying him a boat. "Tehhhh-esss" he'd say, "when are you going to buy me a boat?" Somedays it was a car, but most of the time he wanted me to buy him a boat.

He always shared his lottery winnings with us. Even long after I was grown and out of the house, he's save the loonie or whatever my portion would be for me.

I've always loved to write, and as a young girl, I had a fascination with typewriters. One day, when I was about 10 years old, he came home from work with an old Remington sort of typewriter, and left it for me on my desk. I was the happiest girl in the world that day! He loved to do that sort of thing.

It's been 265 days, Pop, and it still doesn't seem real; I miss you so much.

Happy birthday. I love you