80

Finished the pictures of this family last night.

What a joy they were to photograph!

The slideshow can be found here.

Little ones fourteen months apart, silly as anything I'd ever seen.

Then went straight to my own.

Celebrating a good, good man.

It's the first I've seen him since his other half joined Jesus.

My Lulu.

My Papa's a good man.

He's lived 80 good years.

We're all a testament to that.

He's the papa I get to see maybe a few times a year.

But he never missed a birthday card for all of his children and grandchildren, and now three great-grandchildren.

Rarely missed a Sunday evening phone call.

I couldn't have been prouder to be on his arm at my high school graduation.

He always had dried apricots in the glove box of his car.

And the very best playground ever just a short walk from his house.

I got to spend a week with him several years ago.

My sister and I traveled out there for a spring break. One of the nights, Papa and Lulu, they broke out the date matching service videos they recorded, previewed and selected of each other.

What a special thing it was to be let in on this little memory lane.

They both sat there, not a clue of the love they would find. Carefully choosing words to describe their perfect mate, making sure to explain the priority of their allegiance to Nebraska Cornhuskers.

And when Papa drove us back to the airport, that's when he let us in on his childhood.

My heritage.

He's the kind of man whose kindness lies under a boldness, a matter-of-fact, good kind of skin.

And it's had to be a thick kind of skin over these 80 years.

He started working when he was 12 or maybe 14.

Either way, before he had facial hair.

Worked sometimes all day.

Took care of his mother each day.

He's a black and white kind of man. Right is right. He says what he means, means what he says.

That's just the way it is.

That's just the way he is.

Happy birthday, Papa.