Happy Birthday, Dad

I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday yesterday. He’s 68.

My father counts the day of his birth among the most important days in his year. I can appreciate that. I don’t hold my own birthday in terribly high esteem, myself, but I can understand why people see them as special. He and I have the conversation every year about why they're supposed to be sacred days. I think he supposes that I'm a curmudgeon about them. That's not true. I just don’t get all excited about the day, per se. I take a big-picture, though probably unrealistic, philosophical position on the issue. Treat people like it’s their birthday all the time, I say, and maybe we wouldn’t need to make such a big deal out of that particular day. Why should one ever feel constrained in giving love and attention?

Anyway, I love you, Dad! I hope you get a chance to do something you would enjoy. I’d get you a boat, if I could afford it. I know you love to be out on the water! You’ll have to settle for a funny card and a better way to make coffee, though. Seriously, those “coffee-in-a-bag” things are not the way to go.