Several years ago, I relocated my aging parents from the middle of the country to San Diego.  My Mom died in 2002 and being the only local son, I became the care giver for my Dad.  It was a gift.

Dad had pretty good health right up until his death in 2006 at the age of 85.  My responsibilities grew until I was mostly handing his finances, taking him shopping and making sure he kept doctor appointments.  But the important and beautiful thing is that I got to spend time with him.

We used to sit on his porch drinking coffee or go to the local park and feed the squirrels, geese and ducks.  During these extended afternoons, Dad shared the family history and his exploits during WWII when he was a crew chief on bombers.  I treasure those moments.  We got to know each other, and I grew to love him as I never had during the hectic times of growing up in a family of six.

His rich memories of growing up in the Midwest brought my legacy alive to me.  He had an encyclopedia knowledge of our family history, rich with anecdotes.  Dad remembered Civil War veterans marching in the Veterans Day parades.  His father working in the family blacksmith shop and losing an eye when a mule kicked him.  The tornado that destroyed much of the town when he was seven.  Pearl Harbor and the hardships he and Mom shared during WWII after getting gas ration tickets to make the trip to Vegas to get married.  The risks he took in life, his triumphs and his failures.  His love for my Mother.

Now that he is gone, I think of him often.  I'm so glad I had those years of being his care giver and confidant.  I treasure that time.  It was the best gift that he could give me.  God bless you, Dad.