Today would be Sam's 76th birthday. The first birthday I celebrated with him was his 24th. My gift was a shirt and pair of slacks which I bought during an Easter visit to Minneapolis. Neither fit because the fellow who waited on me was someone I had dated -- a big burly boy -- and I didn't want him to know my boyfriend wore a "small." I agree. Childish.
My mother thought clothing was an inappropriate gift. Proper young ladies would buy shaving lotion (no men's cologne in 1955), gloves, handkerchiefs, etc. I knew this, but I also knew that he needed something other than his Marine uniform to wear when he went out. So.
I started to go to the cemetery today but once I was on the road I got cold feet. I didn't want to go alone. Crime sometimes has the upper hand in the city's cemeteries, sad to say, and single women are easy pickings.
I miss you, Sam. Happy Birthday.
Happy Birthday, Daddy. I miss you too. Carlo Ferrara came into the restaurant a couple of days ago and introduced himself to Phil. He told Phil that it was a shame that he and Daddy lived in the same city and yet hardly saw each other. He said the one thing he remembered about Daddy, was that he was always so proud of his kids. Phil told me this morning, he wasn't aware that it was Daddy's birthday.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you, too. Should have called, Mom. I would have met you there.
I miss you Daddy, too, and think about you every day. Happy Birthday!
I miss him too. I thought of him on his birthday, as I do when company is coming to town and I am such a slouch about carrying the torch for entertaining and being available for taxi rides to the French Quarter, or thereabouts.