Two more photos of him, with Billy and me.
This day is his. It's the day he was born, but also the day he is remembered by fewer and fewer family members because we are dying off; only two of his four children are still alive. My three children met him, but the twins were barely four and my son was not yet a year old when a drunk driver ran a stop sign and slammed into the truck he was riding in. They don't remember him, even though one of the girls said at the time, "Grandpa got died." They both called National Cemetery "flower land" when they visited his grave with me after the funeral.
Others in the U.S. may be celebrating Indigenous People's Day (or perhaps they still call it Columbus Day), but for me, it's Daddy's Day.
I love you, Dad.