95. Today. Same day as Brad Pitt. Same as Steven Spielberg. Except he was first. 1921. A child in Great Depression. Oklahoma “Grapes of Wrath” style. Rode a horse to school bareback. Joined the army. Well, drafted more like it. WWII Veteran. In Japan when they dropped the bomb. Worked on landing strips in middle of nowhere responsible for changing Friend or Foe codes on planes. Retired Civil Servant. His dad, my grandpa, lived until the day before his 90th birthday. My dad, going strong. Exposed to agent orange, asbestos. His house exploded from propane gas leak when he was 76. 3rd degree burns. Skin grafts on both his hands and one leg because he dug himself out of burning insulation before driving himself 10 miles to hospital and collapsed. One month in Tulsa burn unit ICU. Severe 2nd degree burns to face. Doctors said he probably wouldn’t survive first week and if he did survive, he would die of infection because of his diabetes. He survived. No signs of burns. He’s a fighter. And at 95, doctors say he could live to 100. And to think, he was 48 when I was born. Old back then to have kids. Not now. I never thought he’d live this long. I worried my whole childhood. He’s always been as old as my friend’s grandparents. But he’s made it and tmw we are heading to brunch to celebrate. 95. Happy Birthday Dad.
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