He was born in 1917 on the plains of western Kansas. He lived through the flu epidemic, flappers, Prohibition, the Great Depression. He survived the Dust Bowl in the very heart of it, and the memory of Black Sunday can still bring him to tears.
Classical music moves him beyond any other. He was a brilliant student in a one room schoolhouse who went on to achieve many degrees and to have a distinguished career as a research chemist. His doesn't brag about the many patents he holds. He won't talk much about his World War II service except to shake his head and marvel at the remarkable resiliency of the Japanese.
He built us a bomb shelter at the peak of the Cold War. He took us outside as tornadoes passed overhead, enchanted with the power of those destructive storms. He lived through Vietnam, through hippies, through troubled daughters, a wife who abandoned him and a second wife so devoted I am convinced she is an angel.
He has always been humble, always curious, always fascinated by the natural world. He laughs and makes others love him with his warmth and kindness. He can be critical and demanding, and his heart is soft enough to break with an unkind word.
He speaks with just a hint of a German accent. He loves his family and wants, more than anything, for "his people" to be okay. I have fought with him over politics, over my lifestyle, over all manner of things which now seem inconsequential. More than anything I've sought his approval and today, sober and happy, I have it.
My Daddy is 90 today. That's young for a redwood, but it's a ripe old age for a human being. He is forgetful and healthy, and every day he's with us is a gift. I love my papa.
Labels: birthdays, daddy
