Ninety five years ago today, on February 6,1919, my hero was born. Of course, he wasn't yet my hero; he was a new baby for a new family. He was THEIR hero, I'm sure. As he grew up, he became a big brother to his beautiful sisters. He was a boy who liked his mischief, but also his studies. He was proud and determined and wonderful.
He grew to be a husband and a father. The times were hard, but he always found a way to take care of his family. When he became a grandfather, he took me on as another to care for. I always felt special with my Grampa-- I still do. There is just something about my hero that makes me know that, at least to him, I'm special.
He went on to do amazing things, things that continue to this day. He takes care of everyone and has been an enormous contributer to most of my memories. Our walks across the freeway pedestrian walkways, our visits every summer, the Harlem Globetrotters games, seeing Finian's Rainbow, his storytelling and photos that he shared, and, most recently, his being there for me at the loss of my other hero, his son, my dad.
I'm beyond proud of my Grampa for all he's done for all of us. Especially because he doesn't do any of it with any though of thanks. He does it because that's just what Grampa does.
I'm so thankful that I still have my Grampa in my life and only wish I could be with him to celebrate his 95th birthday.
Happy birthday, Grampa. I love you!
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