December 9th, ‘31

My phone chimed, its tone too soft for a text message.  The calendar reminder popped up on the screen.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I’d been thinking about it for a week.  That last time he was in the hospital.  How every nurse or doctor who stepped in the room asked him, “what’s your date of birth?”.  After a few days, when anyone sporting a stethoscope came in the room, before they could ask, Dad blurted out, “December 9th, ‘31”.  

Dad was a generous man. He made so many things possible for others.  

The best birthday ever was the one before the last one.  Just Dad and us kids, sitting around the farmhouse kitchen table.  Seven of us.  Low key.  Chili and crackers, birthday cake, and ice cream.  A little food and a lot of conversation. Reminiscing.  Sharing.  Storytelling.  Not to mention, gut-wrenching belly laughs.    

Dad was a thinker.  A list maker. Maybe even a hell-raiser once in a while.  

When someone says to one of us, “oh my gosh, you sound just like your dad!”, we grin, ear to ear.  Quite a compliment.  No matter what we were caught doing.  And lately, I catch myself asking, “hmmm...what would Dad do?”

Near the end, as Dad sat at the farmhouse kitchen table his head was propped up on two elbows.  Glancing at us, his dark and tired eyes sagging under the weight of the past eighty-seven years, he asked, “how do people who don’t have kids get through this?”

We didn’t have an answer for him.  Because we never, ever, considered it any other way.

Helping Dad was never a chore.  It was a privilege.  

Dad was a farmer. He was a businessman.  A statistician.  Dad was a husband.  He was a father. A friend.

I looked down at my phone.  I pressed delete on the calendar reminder.  December 9 - Dad’s birthday.  I didn’t need a reminder.  I would never forget.