My father
was quite the man. After working his way through medical school, he was diagnosed with tuberculosis, the Captain of Death in those days. A baby and
another on the way struck severely at his sense of responsibility. He said he never doubted that he would live. He recovered, but lost a lung in the
process. Even with one lung, he raised a family and maintained a busy medical practice, including middle of the night calls for help delivering babies.
Later a nurse told me they were always glad when my father attended births because he never lost his cool.
In the war years, our yard was big enough to have a cow and chickens along with a large vegetable garden–at 6,500 ft in the Colorado mountains and a short
growing season. In later years, he planted roses. I got a nickel for every beetle I pulled off the roses and put in a jar.
When I attended my 50th high school reunion, almost thirty years after Dad’s practice was closed, a classmate told me how much my dad was still missed.
“Not just by me,” he said, nodding toward a table of his friends, “all of us.”
Submitted by Janelle
