My father turned 66 today.
In my earlier years, I thought 66 sounded really old. Like drooling a nursing home old. But as my parents have crept into their 60s, it's been fun to see them keep growing. And thriving.
In his 60s, I think my father has finally found his groove. He's writing songs and playing gigs. In between he's probably doing nearly as much child care and diaper changes as he did when we were young. He even manages to keep up to speed on food allergies, cutting juice with water and mastering the art of microwave mac & cheese.
We grew up in a household of music, with my dad strumming along a soundtrack. I suspect it's no coincidence that I married a man who plays the guitar. I'm not sure I could fathom raising my kids in a house where someone doesn't spontaneously burst into song or pick at a guitar.
Bonnie, Susie and I went to surprise him tonight while he performed at a fundraiser. An intimate evening, he played to a perfect crowd, who laughed and roared and clapped. Tom had asked me if I wanted to bring the video camera, and I wish I had because I need to remember to capture his performances. Not just the songs, but the banter in between.
I love that he tells these stories. Someday I'll convince him to blog, because, hey, 66 is the age of blogging, haven't you heard? But in the meantime, I'll sit back and listen.
Happy birthday, Papa Joe.