Happy birthday, dad.

I don't remember the exact day that my father was born. But I know it was in November 1910. Which means that if my father had lived, he'd be turning 100 any moment now. Maybe he could have made it. People do live to be 100. Not many. Turns out my father didn't have any desire to live that long. He committed suicide. When he was 38. As it turns out, I can hardly remember my father. He was a traveling salesman. And spent much of his time on the road. We'd see him on weekends. And not every weekend. He was also a habitual gambler. But generally a nice, relatively easy-going guy. Or so it seems to me. Can't tell for sure. Because I didn't know him that well. I think he was rather sociable. Because he worked part-time as a bartender. And he even went through a period when he had his own tavern. With slot machines. Which apparently were legal in Wisconsin for a short period in the 1940s. My father only had an eighth grade education. And his father was a German immigrant, whom I suspect sneaked into the U.S. illegally around 1900. Anyway, it would have been nice if dad had lived to 100. Because I have lots of questions I would like to ask him. No doubt, we'd also have a big-time birthday party. Maybe I'll throw one. And invite his spirit. I wouldn't put it past him. To show up. --Jim Broede