It is ironic that I am remembering today as the day my Dad would have turned 95.
He died 22 years ago, never getting even close to his 95th.
It's ironic because I was (and still am) the worst birthday rememberer in the history of birthdays.
My siblings would sometimes remind me, and I would sometimes act on it fast enough to at least get a card to him. But sometimes not.
To be fair, I never expected anyone to remember my birthday, and that's true now as well. I'm just not a birthday kinda guy.
Dad was a good man. He served his country in WWII, served his community as a member of the New York Police Department, and of course served his family, sometimes under the great duress that only kids can provide.
My parents met at a dance and I do believe it was love at first sight.
I look at the wedding picture on the right. So young! And like all of us, not much of a clue about what lay ahead.
I wish Dad had lived longer---at least enough to see his grand kids grow up and have his great grand kids.
Mom was a bit older, and lived longer. I'll soon be writing about what would have been her 100th.