I casually mentioned to my lovely wife, today is my dad’s birthday. She, being the amazing person she is, made the suggestion that I take some of the whiskey he drank and go into the backyard and make a toast to him. Sounded like an excellent idea, so we did just that.

So, to the man who taught me how to change the oil in a Plymouth, explained to us about tornados and lightning, raised nine kids and survived despite a few of us, taught us going to mass every Sunday was just a part of life, who would talk about his ancestry and his time working in the service of our great country. Who built his final house with his hands and had a desk that was tidy and neat, unlike a few of us. Whose dry sense of humor created the benchmark for our humor, (for those of us who have humor). Who would make a trip to Iowa to get his relatives to gather once a year, telling them the same stories over and over. We salute you.

This man has left memories in each of us to last a lifetime. Everyone in the family has different stories to tell about him, and I truly wish we could all gather our memories together and record them, and yet I know that would not happen. In truth, everyone who leaves this earth to return Home, leaves memories that we all experience differently, and would fill volumes.

All we can do, is sit back with a shot of Old Forester whiskey and raise it to the sky, and say, “Thanks, Pop. You did good.”

Someday each of us will be able to sit next to him again, and hear his stories of growing up in Iowa, and Grandmother Nolte making everything edible with potatoes.

Then my wife suggested, perhaps the next time some of us gather in the great City of Pampa during the month of March, we should also share a toast to my mother, whose favorite wine was chardonnay, but drank the chillable red box wine.

Sometimes I feel sorry for those who are not a part of this amazing family.