Today is my Dad's birthday. Sadly, he died young and I regret never having taken the time to talk to him more in his last months. He always deferred to my mother in matters such as maintaining relations with his family. If he happened to answer the phone when I rang, he would always say, "I'll get your mother."
I've decided to take on the project of writing something of his life. It won't have much detail because he never talked about himself but I hope to put, in some sort of order, the memories I have. Here are the first few sentences of my first draft:
Marilyn will often say to me, “You’re getting more like your father every day” and it pleases me, even though I know she’s pointing out that I’m adopting one or more of the little quirks or eccentricities which made him an individual.
He’s been dead now for over 30 years but we still smile when we think of him, in his tattered orange jumper, sitting at his old typewriter, which was stained by the smoke of the unfiltered, full-strength cigarettes he preferred, and which eventually killed him.
He was a quiet man who often said mockingly, “My wants are few” to which one of us would say “but constant.” There was truth, though, in his statement. He demanded little from life, never struggling for a new and bigger car, never showing off his possessions, and never putting anyone down to make himself look better.
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