A Birthday Post

This is a post is about the man who is my father.





It was right around this time 62 years ago that he popped out of the womb ready to greet the world and see what was going on.

He practiced the violin, had a pet raccoon, went to college, managed to avoid the Viet Nam draft, met my mom, got married, and had ME and my sister.

I know I'm leaving out a lot of specifics, but I'm waiting for him to write his memoirs and then I will do a documentary about it. I wouldn't want to spoil all that by listing it all here now.






My father wore-- and still wears many hats. He is many different things to different people.

In lieu of a bad rhyming poem, I am writing a boring old list.

This list is a list of what my father is to me: (in no particular order of importance)

Violinist
Artist
Teacher
Father
Provider
Pencil Magician
Musician (I've never seen him pick up an instrument he couldn't figure out how to play)
Junk Hauler
Prop Master
Bargain Finder
Editor
Proofreader of School Assignments
Breather of Helium and maker of funny voices.
Freberg quoter
Eater of Oatmeal
Chauffeur
Payer of College Tuition
Swimmer
Associate Concertmaster
Concertmaster
Composer
Transcriber
Doer of his own taxes
Lawn Mower
Sail Boater
Moped-er
Vegetable Juicer
Pic Line Flusher
Foot rubber
Arm tickler
Santa Clause
Drawer of Paganini Charicatures
Costume Designer
Wolfman Mask Wearer
Sculpter
Photographer
Videographer
Scrabble Player
Trivial Persuit Master
Partaker of a buffet
Coffee Drinker
Traveler
Comedian
Punster
Writer
Cook
Baker of Violin Cakes
Birthday Song Harmonizer
Builder of Snow Forts
Mystery Gift Wrangler
Collector of old produce
Apple Pie Maker
Stir Fryer
Beard grower
Etc.
And so and so and so and so...

My dad was the subject of one of the very earliest dreams I ever remember having. I was four years old and my dad was still in Miami finishing up his job at the university. We had already moved back to Lexington. And one night I had a dream that we were in the front yard in Florida and we were looking a different little piles of grass clippings on these different bookshelves in the middle of the yard. Then I heard a helicopter. Then there were machine guns shooting at us from the helicoptor. We scattered and ran around trying to get away, but then my dad got shot and died and never came back from Miami. I woke up in tears. And I couldn't wait for him to come home.

Pretty wild that I still remember that 24 years later don't you think?

Anyway, he DID return from Florida and I was very relieved to have my daddy back.

My father is starting his 63rd year (having just completed his 62nd. See how that works?) with yet another title added to the list. "Widower".

My pride of him only grows greater.

I owe a huge percentage of the success of my 28 years of life to him. And I am who I am because he is who he is. And I mean that all in a good way!

One thing I miss this year: Getting the phone calls from my mother that start with her laughing and saying "you'll never guess what your father just did!" or saying "I just had to call you and tell you what your father just hauled home on the back of the truck!"

Hats off to you, Pops!
I have unfortunately inherited a bit of your tardiness, and I'll be mailing you your birthday card ON your birthday. So you might get it a little late. But the present from Me and Carrie should have already gotten there...

I love you, Daddy!!!

Happy Birthday!!!

From your firstborn (who will always pluck the E-string as an accent in "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" as a tribute to our first musical inside joke),

Melinda