“I can read music a little bit, but not well enough that it hurts my playin'.”
- Harold Propst
Today was my dad's birthday. He was born on a Sunday in 1917. Here's a unique fact. In our family farmhouse, six-miles east of Kirksville, Missouri, he was born and died in the same room, 83 years apart. Leave it to Harold Propst to pull something like that off.
I was fortunate to have a father who was a real character. He saw the world a little cockeyed. The older I get the more I appreciate that. He enjoyed life. He loved to laugh, loved to hear and tell a good story, he loved music and my mother's cooking. He never took himself or earthly matters too seriously. By his and my mother's examples, I learned what a well-lived life looks like. You can't receive a much better gift than that.
Dad was a good dad. For the boys of my generation, at least the ones I knew , there weren't any father/son heart to heart talks or set aside times to discuss feelings. That was not remotely a thing then. Walk it off, get over it and get on with it was the general prescription for dealing with life's troubles. Maybe it wasn't a bad approach. Thanks, Dad.
Here's three he would have enjoyed:
.