I just got off the telephone with my 91 year old daddy. He was born
Sept. 11, 1919. He was getting ready for church when I called, but he stopped what he was doing to spend a minute over the phone with me.
He talked about the tomatoes and cucumbers he'd planted this spring and how fast spring is turning into summer. He talked about how beautiful the weather has been in the part of Virginia where he lives and how my mom loved to watch the big snow storms fall.
His voice got weak when he described in detail going to the cemetery yesterday to put flowers on the graves of my mother, her sister and his parents.
He told me stories I have heard many, many times before about my grandfather, his father. My dad always starts out by reminding me tht his father was born Jan. 11, 1890. His stories twist through the history of this country through the wilderness of the Appalachian Mountains into NC and back up to Virginia.
My father's grandfather, who he knew, was born in 1850. He talked about his grandfather's brothers who fought in the Revolutionary War and about adventures his grandfather shared with him about that time.
Before we hung up the phone, he told me that a day doesn't go by that he doesn't think about his dad and how much he misses him.
So if it's okay Skip, I'll copy and paste for my father to his father: Roses grow in Heaven, Lord, pick a bunch for me. Place them in my father's arms & tell him they're from me - Tell him that I love and miss him & when he turns to smile-place a kiss upon his cheek.
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