Today is February 7th and my father was buried on February 6, 1972, which is 42 years ago yesterday. I was nineteen years old and a freshman at the University of Texas at Austin. Daddy died on February 4th, 1972.
I regret that my husband and children never got to meet my dad. He was a character, full of life and lots of fun. He loved to break into dance and to tell dumb jokes. He didn’t seem to care how silly he seemed. He was comfortable in his own skin. He was also a very handsome fellow, a fine dresser and an excellent dancer. As my music teacher once described him, “He was the handsomest man in three counties.”
To me, Daddy was a steadfast father. He never went a day without telling me he loved me and he was a constant presence in my life when I was growing up. He was fifty when I was born and since I was the fifth out of six kids and the baby girl, I had the advantage of having a father who never hesitated to shower his love on me. I am very lucky in that regard. I never, ever doubted my dad’s love for one second in our short time on earth together. He made sure that I knew that I was special in his eyes.
I am grateful to my father for his loving kindness. I continue to feel his love all these years later, as if he’s right by my side, cheering me on. How lucky I have been to have him. His unwavering love has made such a difference in my life.
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