Happy 90th, Dad.

We have a family friend from my parent’s college days. He shares his birthday with dad. He isn’t having so much fun at 90. His fingers won’t obey when he types any longer, dentures are an insult, the pandemic kept him from taking the train so he could get out and walk in the Alps, furthering his isolation. Very occasionally I get a short email in a code that he apologies for. I assure him I have zero problem understanding what he writes. My father was a code breaker after all. I didn’t fall too far from the puzzle tree. Other than eyesight, which is a lot, I wonder what my father would have thought of 90, what his experience would have been. I like to think he would have been all over books-on-tape, adaptive devises, and asking his family for any help he needed. I don’t get to know.

Our family lost six men in about five years: My grandfather, first husband, his bio and step dads, my dad, and my father-in-law. Each loss caused many ripples through the greater family. I think about my parent’s friends, some of them now my friends, who are steadily striding into their 80’s. The privilege of advancing decades is getting to say goodbye to people you love. Not all privileges are easy.

So, Happy Birthday, Dad (and Adam too!)! I hope you’re on your comfy cloud, martini in hand, entertained by our shenanigans, proud of what we’ve gotten right, and not worried about our foibles. I love you 💜!