It happens every year ? I can’t quite remember which day is my Dad’s birthday. Lou Hinton was born 12/16/1917 on a farm in central Tennessee, but I always miss-remember it as 12/17, another dyslexic moment. So, again, I’m a day late.

Not that he’ll notice. My Dad died 33 years ago, nearly 2/3rds of my lifetime ago. This is the time each year I think of him. And whenever I build something out of wood, like our arbor. An engineer by profession, he was a good carpenter and planner. That people could be oblivious to some things that seemed so obvious to him left him frustrated to the point of anger. He was successful in that 1950’s way and as flummoxed as anyone else by the Revolutions of the 1960’s.

He was survived by a dozen years by my Mom, who flourished in that way widows often do, but who never stopped missing him.

Perhaps 10 years ago, after Mom had died, I sat at the computer writing a letter to my Dad, as if he had survived her death. I had this clear vision of him living in the West, driving a pickup truck with a couple of big dogs. I cried more than when he died.

Happy Birthday, Dad.