As I grow older, I think about My Old Man a lot -- my long-deceased father whom I rarely had time for as a teenager, young man, 30-something, etc. He died in 1986 at the age of 65. I passed the 66-year mark this past March and reflected then on that uneventful event – “Well, I’ve outlived my old man, for whatever that means from an anatomical and heredity analysis,” I mused. Of course, my mother died in 1964 at age 40, so go figure.
With my family’s health history, I’m probably not likely to probe the treasure troves of mortality many more years, but that’s okay. I live life on life’s terms now. For all the potholes and problems therein, my life has been good. I have a wonderful spouse, two great children, an outstanding daughter-in-law and the three cutest, smartest grandkids east of the Mississippi.
I believe I owe my good life, in some or large part, to the efforts of My Old Man, and his American brothers and sisters who have come to be regarded as the nation’s “Greatest Generation.”
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