My father was born on the 21st of September in 1919.
His was a rough life. Orphaned, passed around, institutionalized, run away, lived on the streets, petty crime, maybe larger crimes, prison, released into the Army toward the end of the the 2nd world war, medic, badly, badly wounded, lost his right arm, shrapnel coming up through his skin for the rest of his life, alcoholic, in and out of jail and hospital, dreamer, wisher, wanter of better and bigger things. Wanted to be an Irish Frank Sinatra. Wanted to be classy. Betrayed his family over and over again.
And, he relentlessly told me how good I was and how he loved me.
September 21st sits in my heart…
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