Papa

My father was born 117 years ago today.

For a number of reasons I have been in a reflective mood lately. Not long ago a friend posted a bit about mortality. How we can only really know our own time. Our own life. There are historical figures and accounts of life in other times, but they often leave me wondering what day to day life was like. I don't think I can ever fathom the world that my father was born into. I can know facts about it, but I don't think I can ever wear the reality of it.

I'm in danger of get side tracked here. I can, want to, and maybe will say a lot more about this. But this post is to celebrate my father. The point being that the way we live on is in the memory of others. He died when I was 18. Not a lot of years to remember. I do remember his laughter. I remember his anger. I remember his love of cats. His walk.

Mostly I remember his music. Some of it lives in me. Today I tuned up Papa's fiddle and played Nikolina for a while. It made me smile.