He loved birthdays.  Written on the back of this shot in Mother’s handwriting, it says “43rd   birthday cake.”  That would make it October 12, 1944, and I would have been about eighteen months old.  He has on his Oklahoma Highway Patrolman’s uniform.

I believe all my other grandparents lived well into their nineties, but Papa died young.  He had four granddaughters, but I am the only one who got to know him, to sit on his knee and listen to the silly songs he sang.  I was only ten when he died, but I remember so many things about him — he was tall and handsome and proud and sentimental. He carved sweet-smelling cedar into interesting things with his pocket knife.  He brought home giant candy canes at Christmas time.  He gave me a little rocking chair that I still have and a dollar bill that he slipped into my hand that last time I saw him.

I am sentimental. Just like him.