Birthday blues

My sister emailed this photo today of our Dad and Mom on his 56th birthday. She's good like that. My brother wrote back that Dad's big round head make him think of Charlie Brown. He was a Charlie Brown, not only in looks but personality though, prompted by my Norwegian pride, I must add... HARD WORKER. A Charlie Brown who made it work anyway. And a good Dad. Andy. Note the giant hands. First generation from Norway. North Dakota homestead raised. Sixth grade education. Quit during plowing time that year. Too much work to ever go back. Married. Loved her big tits. She always said she married him for his dimple. Migrated to Seattle. Steel business. Worked his way up from shipyard welder to plant owner. Raged against slick and sleazy business partners. "Too honest", he would complain. Proved you can't take the country out of the boy. Today would be his 97th, had he lived. Not unreasonable, given that he came from a line of long-lived Norwegians. Grandma made it to 98.

Like my sister wrote, they were so young. Looks like my mother has already enjoyed a birthday toast or two. Ironically, spread before him a feast made up of things that called his early death ... a cube of butter, a platter of flesh, a brimming glass of whole milk and a luscious fat-filled sugary cake. Not pictured: cigarettes and booze. Not included: regular exercise. If only they knew then what we know now, they might both be alive to celebrate this day with us.