What a Difference a Year Makes (Not)
My father turned 80.
He celebrated his 80th birthday by taking us all to Bermuda. "All of us" consisted of 7 kid-equivalents, 6 spouses, 12 grandchildren, and his sister. Lest you labor under the mistaken assumption that he, my mother and aunt are stereotypical little old people who eat dinner at 5:00 and go to bed at 8:00, suffice it to say that they partied the rest of us under the table.
Here he is, just about to blow out the candle on his birthday (cheese)cake:
Please note that he has just finished a deep inhalation in preparation for said candle-blowing, but has not yet begun the impending forceful exhalation. This means that at the instant of this image, he is still full of hot air.
The trip was a truly magnificent gathering, enjoyed by one and all, and of which fond memories linger.
Today, finally, he can stop walking around telling people that he is 80. This is because today, he is 81.
He still works, though not full time. He stopped that just a few years ago. In order to avoid confusion (his), he has re-labeled the days of the week. Because he only works Monday through Thursday, he states that he no longer has a Friday, so he has re-named it Saturday I, with the next day, "Saturday" to the rest of us, now being Saturday II. He continues to enjoy all his old hobbies: flying, reading about flying, crossword puzzles, and arguing outrageous positions just for fun (as opposed to earlier in his career, when he did so for fun and profit. Yes, he's a lawyer.)
He's sharp as a tack, has all of his marbles, and even remembers what to do with them (both tacks and marbles.) He was at a huge professional convention a few weeks ago, and will be coming to visit next week in conjunction with a friend's 80th b-day party. As long as I make Liptauer (separate post, recipes included, to follow) for him, he will be happy as a clam. All things considered, he really is quite easy to please; when he's not driving me crazy, of course. Such is the way of fathers and children, I suppose.
So Happy Birthday, Dad; and Happy Father's Day to boot.
I suppose I can wait another nine years to go back to Bermuda.
(Edited, at the insistence of Darling Spouse, to add: We have beer in the fridge, Dad. You don't need to bring your own can of Bud.)