Ninety years ago today, my father was born in a part of the same city that my own persistent existence lingers beside. Though he had died five years previous at the age of eighty-five, the progression of events and the character that they fashioned bears some continued recognition. To put him up on a pedestal above the shoulders of all other men of his time is perhaps an overstatement. In my own eyes he undoubtedly shines out so brilliantly as the best of them. But his real strength in a more lasting sense was that he was one of the best of them because he came to know himself in this same sense and built upon that as his foundation. I spent a good part of my life surviving under that long all embracing shadow not understanding that it was there not to block out my own Sun but as his own humble gift to me most earnestly from his heart. The tragedy of course being that the young rarely can come to accept such gifts until it is long past the bestowal of them in absence of their still being there. The vacuum and the resulting emptiness of his disappearance come of mortal absence has made me a much more unfortunate and wiser man. His monument is the fact of understanding that one is not composed of the sum total of their inadvertent flaws but of their continued attempts to correct them. Thank God that men like him have existed. It’s a hard act to follow!
Happy Birthday! Ron