Today's Birthdays

Lynne called him Grandpa Love-a-baby. He was that, I guess. Mostly he was my dad, Daddy. It’s his birthday today, and if he had lived beyond age 89 until now, he would be 117. But he died in April 1981, six months before his 90th birthday.

My baby daughter, Ann, is 29 years old today, born on my dad’s birthday. If you’re any good at math, you can figure out that she was born before he died, about a year and a half before. In January 1980, when she was really little, I packed her into Wayne’s white two-door Subaru—along with my friend Joyce and two of her small boys—to take her down so Daddy could see her. Ann, his little birthday gift.

We took Wayne’s car instead of my Datsun, both small cars, because the Subaru had front-wheel drive and a better chance of doing well on snowy roads, not that we expected any. But better to be safe, you know.

I dropped Joyce and her boys off in south Salt Lake, Murray, I think, and went out to East Millcreek where Daddy was living with my brother Bill and his wife Lynne. We had a nice visit. Grandpa Love-a-baby held Ann, bounced her a bit, talked his special uppaluppachupa talk, maybe called her his little bunson-a-bullison, and sang to her some of those old songs he always sang to us kids, “Comin’ Thru the Rye” maybe or “Hush-a-bye and don’t you cry and we shall go to grannies, over the hill, behind the mill, to see the little lambies,” perhaps a “Rock-a-bye Baby,” too. There was no doubt he loved her. I felt that visit was a blessing for her and for me. I like to think I have a picture of the two of them somewhere, but I can’t find it.

The trip home was eventful. Blizzard. Cars and trucks off the road, though I couldn’t see them very well. Were they waiting out the storm? Maybe so. But we couldn’t do that. We had babies in the car, so we pushed on, slowly. I couldn’t see three feet in front of me, and the roads were thick with snow. I was pretty much scared, holding onto the steering wheel very tight, well aware that we were all precious cargo and needed to get home safely.

At Burley we stopped to get gas. I had hoped the storm would diminish once we crossed into Idaho, but no. Still very bad. I opened the trunk and a baby quilt blew out and quickly disappeared into the white. I had never seen such a thing.

Also at Burley, I asked Joyce to drive for a while. I was tired, worn out, really. She drove almost to Twin Falls and pulled over. “It’s just too hard,” she said. That surprised me; she was always so tough. I drove the rest of the way home, a long drive.

Finally in Caldwell, I dropped her off and made my way up to North Georgia, so very glad to be home. Wayne was surprised to see us, said that the Salt Lake airport was closed—okay—and the pass out of Tremonton, the one where the going was so hard, where the cars were pulled over, was closed, too. Nobody had told me about it.

I called to tell Joyce about the road closure, to give thanks with her that we had made it, but I couldn’t talk to her. Her husband said she was lying down. The trip had exhausted her. Hmm. Maybe I’m the tough one.

I have thought many times of that trip. January was a dangerous time to travel, especially with my new baby. But I didn’t know how long my dad would be around, and when we left to go down, the weather was beautiful. Besides, Ann did just fine. The trip was nothing but good for her. She slept a lot. No crying, no fussing. Just as good and easy as she always was, and thank goodness for her. I mean you can’t be thankful enough for a good baby. And I have always been glad my dad got to know her before he left this earth.

Happy Birthday Daddy; Happy Birthday Ann.