My dad has been gone nearly 12 years now. Today would have been his 98th birthday. When I was little girl, he used to always tell me not to worry about him. He'd live to be a hundred. I'm still a little miffed about that, because I sure would have given a lot to have 14 more years with him.
My dad was a quiet man. A man of deep faith. A kind person who reminded me you never knew what made people the way that they are. Many of you may not realize that I'm adopted, and I certainly hit the parental
lottery. I would not be the person I am today without the people who raised me.
My dad's take on the world was that you just had to keep grinnin' and keep goin'. It would confuse your enemies and it couldn't help but make you feel better. He was a voracious reader, a generous giver, and a wonderful father.
A little clip from my bio is a story about a visit I had with my dad the last time I saw him alive - he died later that night. He kept asking me, "You know I love you, right?" He wanted to be sure that I knew. I convinced him that I knew.
He also asked me what I was going to do with the rest of my life. I said, "I'm going to be a writer, dad. I've always told you that."
He shook his head sadly and said, "No, you're not."
I was shocked and horrified, and not just a little bit hurt. "What do you mean? Of course, I am!"
He said, "No. Writers write. You just talk about writing."
Over the next year, while trying to process the death of my beloved father, his words kept ringing in my ears. When my life changed and I got the opportunity to take a writing job, I jumped at it, even though it was the kind of job that would make most people think I was crazy.
And I've been writing ever since.
So, Dad, if you happen to be watching, you were right, and I am writing. Thank you for that last, precious lesson you gave me. Happy birthday, and I love you.
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