Yesterday was my Dad’s 90th birthday. We were driving home after dinner last night, and I asked him if he had ever thought he would be 90 years old. “No, I didn’t,” he responded. He said it didn’t feel any different – he was just happy to be alive.
There are so many things I am grateful for this week – I’m older and my mind is scattered and when I am overwhelmed, sometimes I notice that scattered thoughts can be an issue. But my scattered thoughts bring me reason for gratitude this week.
Dad accompanied me to Wichita when I was 17 years old, for two toe surgeries that could have been slightly traumatic for a 17-year-old girl. He held my hand and visited with the doctor, trying to keep me from freaking out as the procedures began. Mom wasn’t in favor of me going through with the whole ordeal, and she and I didn’t see eye-to-eye…so Dad stepped in and was my advocate. To this day, I still think about what he did for me during that time and how grateful I am to have had the surgeries.
Every day, Dad can go downstairs in his apartment complex and see and enjoy the piano that he bought for me when I was a freshman in high school. My sister and I grew up playing a very old yellow-ivoried upright that served as our tornado shelter during storms, but when she went off to college and I was the only child left at home, a new piano was purchased before our move to Hutchinson, and I was the one who enjoyed it the most. Just three years earlier, he and Mom had taken me to Wichita and purchased a brand new Holton Farkas french horn that was my brass companion for the next 7 years. It is still my companion, like a companion you keep on a shelf in the basement, though.
When I was young, there was almost nothing more exciting than when Dad would pull over on our trip home from Haviland, and just a few miles from Haven, he would position me on his lap with the steering wheel directly in front of me. What THRILL it was to be DRIVING, me steering, and Dad pressing the pedals.
My daughter on four legs, Natia the Italian Greyhound, led a pretty chaotic life, being shuffled between Karissa, to me, to Mom and Dad, to Angela, back to me, to Dad, and back to me. Poor little Natia had lots of homes and lots of love. Dad was such a rich part of her little life and he would take her for walks and even scooped poop. Who would have ever thought MY DAD would scoop poop.
One of my favorite sounds is listening to my Dad laugh when the Royals do something wonderful during a game.
I grew up watching, on occasion, Johnny Carson. I cannot imagine that my parents would have ever allowed me to stay up that late, but apparently they did. I have forever and a day thought that Johnny Carson looks JUST LIKE MY DAD. They have the same “build,” the same facial structure, and the same deadpan smirk with a punchline.
I love to hear my Dad pray, love to watch him sitting at the table with his Bible open, love to watch him each Sunday on Zoom, attending virtual church in Indiana. He is a blessing to many and he doesn’t even realize it.
I can still smell the interior of a Cessna or a Piper. I can still visualize the flaps moving up and down, hear the buckle being buckled in the seat while my Dad is talking to the tower, getting ready for take-off or landing. I can still feel that AWFUL feel when he hit an air pocket and we dropped or when he would take us through the clouds and my grip tightened.
Dad taught me how to wash windows: bug-gy car windshields and big plate glass windows on the building when there were no windshields left to wash and he was not about to have two daughters standing around eating cheese crackers with peanut butter on his dime.
One of our jobs when working for Dad at the gas station was to close down the drive each evening. We had to dump the soapy, dirty water and put the squeegees inside, make sure the paper towels were full, read the pumps, and remove the air hoses and store them inside the office. I hated those air hose removals – they are like opening a can of biscuits or turning the crank on a Jack-in-the-box. Dad knew that I hated that job, so he always did it for me.
Almost every Christmas, Dad went a few blocks south of the gas station and bought Pegues $25 coins for Christmas gifts that he would give to my sister, my mom, and me. They were like pure gold and one of my most favorite memories of childhood. I felt very loved and very special every Christmas.
When I was very little, Saturday mornings my brothers were old enough to work with Dad at the station but Angela and I had to stay home and help Mom clean house. We had jobs ALL DAY LONG. I always had to dust, and Mom cornered the market on knick knacks. I also had to hang clothes on the clothesline when I was tall enough. But one of my favorite jobs was late afternoons when the warsh had come in off the line. Mom would set up the floor ironing board and give me a pile of pillowcases and Dad’s handkerchiefs to iron while I watched Wide World of Sports on the big console TV. To this day, I love to iron.
Dad was the best grandpa to my girls when we made trips to Kansas City to go to Worlds of Fun or had a family vacation with Mom and Dad to Orlando to spend a few days at Disney World. He loved to ride rides – had to be in his DNA since he was a pilot. He could rollercoaster and spin and freefall all day long and come off a ride holding a granddaughter hand with a huge grin on his face.
As we all celebrated him last night with some cake, my sister and I read through almost all of the 109 cards and well-wishes that he had received so far. He’s impacted a lot of lives in 90 years, and we were blown away by the kindness and thoughtfulness of people who have known Dad over the years. It was so fun to reminisce and open cards from people we knew when we were still able to sit on Dad’s lap and steer the car. I am grateful for all of you who took the time to send to him.
There just is no better Dad. He’s one of a kind, and I am more than grateful that he is 90 years old and still delivering punch lines.
I love you, Dad!
rhondaisgrateful 