Requeiscat in pace.

Eighty years ago today, my father was born on a farm in eastern Colorado. All year long whenever anyone asked him how old he was, he’d say, “I’ll be eighty at my next birthday – if I make it that long.” His statement hit home yesterday afternoon when he passed from this life.

Strangely enough, my wife and I had planned to have two couples over for dinner this Saturday. (The dinner’s now cancelled as there won’t be time on Saturday for all the preparations.) In July we had planned to have the same two couples over for dinner one Saturday, but my mother died on the Wednesday before the planned dinner. Needless to say, I’m a bit doubtful as to whether we’ll invite that same foursome for dinner again! (Then again, we are fresh out of parents, so maybe it would work out.)

The best comment came from a friend’s seven year old. When told about my Dad’s death he said, “You mean he could have died on his birthday? That would have been the worst birthday of his whole life.” Methinks my little friend has it wrong.