One hundred and two years ago today, August 2, 2019, my father was born in Cave Spring, Ga. He died early in March 2000. It’s hard for me to believe that he was born 102 years ago, and that he has been gone for 19 years. I’m sure it would make him sad to know that most of his family is gone now, from his parents to his brother and sisters, to his wife and his older son. But that’s the way it goes. We are here for a while, and then we’re gone. Some of the people who were close to us remember, but eventually everyone who knew us will be gone as well, and then we won’t exist even in memories.

At least for now, there are a few people who remember him, even aside from me. He has two  grandsons, who will probably think more about him as they get older. He has nephews and nieces who remember him. And I remember him.

This was my father’s high school picture. In those days high school went only through the 11th grade.

This was him ten years or so later. This was early in his Army times, before he was assigned to the infantry. He still wore his crossed cannons of the artillery.

And this was him about sixty years after he was born, when he and my mother visited me at Lake Tahoe.

My little yellow Fiat is behind us. That’s Ivy, my dalmation. They stopped for a while at Tahoe and then went down to Yosemite. I followed on my motorcycle. We camped in their Airstream trailer up above the Yosemite Valley in a campground that had been officially closed for the winter but was still open for people to camp without any amenities. And this was my father and me when we went up to an overlook.

I miss those days.