Sixty-Four
I can't believe this year is almost at an end.
Yet here I am, entering the final month of my
year-long writing project (which you are currently
reading). At my current pace, I'll end the year
right at 100,000 words, a number I never imagined
reaching eleven months ago.
Interestingly, I've noted many themes throughout
the year's columns. There is the occasional
Navy memoir. The
Chargers rear their ugly
heads regularly. And of course my political
rants appear on a regular basis. Today, it's
only appropriate that I finish off another
theme by saluting my father one last time this
year.
- When I get older, losing my hair, many
years from now
Will you still be sending me a valentine,
Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you
lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
when I'm sixty-four?
Today, my dear father turns sixty-four. He
started losing his hair many years ago, not
"many years from now." And the only time he's been
up at quarter to three in the past thirty years has
been to use the toilet. But his lovely valentine
still sends him a bottle of wine, still feeds him,
still needs him. And today, I send him my birthday
greeting.
I've gushed about him before,
but I really am proud to be his son. I've never
known anyone more level-headed, more impervious to
pettiness, more confident in his abilities. One
would think I'd be more of a go-getter being born
with his genes and living under his example. Go
figure. All I can say is, if I look half as good
and am half as fit as he is when I'm sixty-four,
I'll be a lucky man.
Happy Birthday, Pops!
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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