It's wild to imagine that my Dad, affectionately called Johnny, would have been 98 years young today. I wonder how many generations will go on before there is no memory of him or others who have gone before us.
And just because he is no longer here on Earth doesn't stop me from quietly celebrating my Dad's birthday, mostly in my mind; March 9, 1924. I couldn't help but mention his birthday this morning to my guys stating that 98 is a good round number to remember.
What I remember so well about him is that before cell phones, pages, etc., I would call home and ask for "Terri." Every single time my Dad answered on the second or third ring on the kitchen phone with me on the other end asking to speak to myself, he would answer, "she's not home right now." Nothing more, nothing less. I would sigh a big gasp and state loudly, "Dad, it's me, Terri!" I guess he couldn't distinguish my voice from my friends' voices, or he played along with me. Unfortunately, I will never know now. I wish I could ask him if he knew I was calling all along.
I hope that my Dad, a lifetime bowler, is rolling perfect scores of 300 in heaven. A perfect series of 900 wouldn't be too shabby!
bSoleille!
Terri
