One Hundred

Today, October 2, is the 100th anniversary of my father's birth.

I think of him occasionally, remember some of his stories, have some of his tools stamped with his initials and frequently look in the mirror and see his eyes looking back at me.

Two of his sisters died in 1918 with influenza. One sister live to adulthood but died giving birth to her first child. Another brother was killed in a mining accident in 1949. I have one small memory of his funeral.

Over the years the others died in their sixties, seventies, eighties and one in his early nineties. Last week a brother's wife died at age 89. One other aunt by marriage is still alive at 91. When she dies his family will be gone.

This may sound like morbid memories but they are not. They are good memories of times long gone.

He lived at a good time, made it through the depression years, saw parts of the world in WWII, lived about half of his life in houses without indoor plumbing, started his work career as a coal miner before working at a variety of other jobs, made several good friends and always had a close family. He paid off the house mortgage a week before he died and left my mother debt free with a couple thousand dollars in the bank. He had a good life.

Most importantly, he was a wonderful father.