Christmas in October

On October 23, 1954 my parents married. Dad always said when he met Mom, he knew his partying days were done. I arrived in April 1958. Things were non-stop from that day. The pictures here are from a Christmas—which outside of my birthday, was my favorite day of the year. But my parents would say, my birth was the Christmas Day for them.

They’d suffered four miscarriages and I was their last chance at a baby. They wanted me. And I suppose I wanted them as much. I'm sure God informed me of the troubles that lie ahead on Earth. Perhaps, I’d want another set of parents or kick around Heaven a bit more.

Evidently I had my mind made up--even then- and said no. I was born in Iowa, a state not known for its racial diversity, plus I had only one ear. A condition call microtia. So there would be broo-ha-ha how well I would hear. The endless hearing tests grew so annoying. Then my mother only lived to when I was just 13. How would a teenager, without a mother to guide her the rest of the way fare? With all that, I still arrived on the very day the family doctor predicted. Guess I wanted to get the party started because I popped out at 4:30 AM. When I went out on my own, Dad's tradition was to call me at 4:30am on my day. Good way to get my birthday started.

There were the good days, like Dad taking me on the walk to learn the way to kindergarten. He made school sound so grand! We’d peek in the windows and Dad told me how much fun I'd have. Although, Dad didn’t inform me I’d have YEARS to take it all in. The good times Mom and I had as we’d get food from the A and W, or our town’s version of a Dairy Queen. Just drive through the countryside as we sang, laughed and did some girl talk. Or the Saturday mornings, they would pour me in the back seat, with a armful of Nancy Drew mysteries. The whole day would be spent picnicking at different ponds and lakes while they fished and I read, slept and sometimes fished. That was major family time. On the bad, Mom believed in a few, good spanks. While Dad chewed his King Edward cigar, glared and said my entire four word name. Unfortunately, there were no siblings to blame stuff on. Outside of that, Mom would forever tell me I was her angel. Then Dad informed me to always be his prettiest girl. I thought the words corny--then.

On October 23, 2001, what would have been my parents' 47th wedding anniversary, was the day I buried Dad. Instead of tears shed at the grave site, I smiled because I figured Dad had it all planned. Mom passed away when she was 43, and Dad joined her when I was 43. And on this day, it was how it should be--Mom and Dad were together again.

Today I ready myself for a walk and I smile. For they will walk with me. I’ll catch a whiff of Dad’s cigar and hear Mom whisper in my ear that I’m still their angel.

They are mine.

I am blessed.