My Lucky Day

I realized yesterday that it was my Dad’s birthday, and a Friday.

This is significant because Dad was born on Friday the 13th.

He always told us that his date of birth meant that 13 was a lucky number for him and all of his family.

We believed it, of course, and I realized a few years ago that my brother, my niece and I were all wearing the number 13 on our soccer jerseys.

No paraskavedekatriaphobia for our family!

I was 40 before I realized that he had probably invented that rule. I say “probably” because a part of me still believes everything my Dad ever told me, except for the one about how in China they get to eat their dessert first; I started having my doubts about that one when I was 25.

Dad loved to tease, and had a great sense of humor. When I was 16, and pontificating about being an artist, he challenged me with the question “Are you sure you’re a real artist? Do you have a license?” So I made one for him, complete with signature by Pablo Picasso and official seal with paintbrushes over a palette, and stamped with official footprints.

Even with all that good luck, Dad never got to meet his grandchildren. They would have loved having him for a grampa. They would have learned so much from him, although by now they'd be wondering about some of it!

This is his first grandchild, born 6 years too late to meet him.

He died of lung cancer at age 51, after smoking for over 35 years. Was asbestos a contributing factor? Dad was in the navy during WW2.

Thanks, Dad, for the gift of going through life feeling lucky.