It happens a couple of times every year. I take a moment - a small post - to remember my father. I may weave a story into a post here and there, but there are two days annually that stand out more than any other:
St Patrick's Day, the day he died.
And today, December 10th, the day he was born.
And with each post, I fear I risk you, the faithful reader, rolling your eyes, as you might with endless posts about Sean, Yankee Stadium, the 50-point rule, Roger Goodell, life, and so on. Yet I continue.
My dad was born on this day in 1929. His mother, a fascinating woman named Daisy, was - get this - FIFTY when he was born. His father worked for the telephone company as an executive. His brother would also work for the telephone company, but in more of a "telephone man" way.
My dad would go into pure blue collar jobs. He drove a truck for a plumbing supply company. He married my mom and raised three kids. He saw three grandchildren come into the world. He missed out on the further extension of our family.
He was as liked as any person I've ever known.
I continue to learn things about him. I didn't realize, for instance, that he and his family watched from an overpass on the Taconic Parkway as the King and Queen of England drove by to have hot dogs with FDR in Hyde Park in June, 1939. Whether the story was accurate or not is immaterial to me. It's new information.
So hang in there with me, as I take just a moment of your time to remember him. One day, I hope to get some of the video that exists converted into a digital format. Sadly, no trace of his voice exists that I know of, but if you've heard mine, then I think you have a pretty good idea.
Happy birthday to the old man. I can't imagine him being 83. That's what death does. It freezes things in time.
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