Happy Birthday, Dad

 
If my dad were alive he'd be 115 today. How is that even possible? I just don't feel that old.

I scanned a couple of new pictures for you. One of the things Dad liked to do was teach me about the ways of nature. This doe had been hit by a car (not ours) and he stopped to let me see and feel her while she was still warm. He was always sad when animals got killed in the road, but he was a farm boy. Death was just a part of life, and it was accepted.

He also showed me my first litter of opossums. That, too, was a road casualty, and all the little pink babies were still clinging to mom's tail. Dad's matter-of-fact attitude about it all kept me from being sad. There was always a sense of, it's a shame, but things happen. And it was fascinating to be able to examine the critters so close up.

Of course, Dad also hunted. We ate wild meat more often than meat from the store. Actually, it was this same summer (I was four) that Dad taught me how to skin a rabbit.



Dad taught me all kinds of things. There was a right way to do everything, particularly if it required the use of tools. I believe this might be the day he gave me this spot of my own to dig a hole. I'd read a Huey, Dewey, and Louie comic book where they were going to dig a hole to China and I was convinced I could do it too. This became my very own hole for the next ten or so years. I just liked to go out and dig sometimes. I grew up where the ground is hardpan gray clay. I never made it to six feet, let alone China, but I can wield a serious shovel. Still. The pickaxe too.



And I loved that jumpsuit.

In other news: I wrote in the morning, did laundry, got some things ready to mail and walked to the Post Office, and did some bookwork. It doesn't sound like all that much, but somehow it took all day. Oh yeah, and retrieved my car. That's the biggie. I have to decide if it's worth a major repair or get a different one. Stay tuned.

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