My Dad

Ysterday was the one year anniversary of my father's death, as well as that of cousin Jerry—Gerald Ford. I miss the tribute to President Ford on the local PBS channel last night. Dad didn’t get one, although he deserved one.
The youngest son of a large family, he watched after his mother and her affairs until she was gone.
Dad left high school early to fight in World War II and was wounded in Italy.
After coming home, he became a member of a local militia until the end of the war.
He married Mom and had 2 delightful children.
He built two homes, by hand. There was help from others—a brother in law who was a well-driller/plumber, a cousin who was a bricklayer. But mostly it was him and Mom.
He survived driving lessons, and teen years of the previously mentioned delightful children.
He visited Mom every day in the hospital after her stroke, and managed to care for her at home until her death.
He found companionship with another and was loyal to her to the end.
He managed his own affairs and even in the end made the decision to refuse further medical treatment.
He was a brave and wise man.
My dad.