Twenty-four years ago, around 8 or 9 pm, I was sitting on the floor of my living room watching TV and doing my homework. I was 15 years old. My mom got a call that my dad, who worked nights, was being taken to the hospital. So she went to the next town and got my grandma to come over to watch us while she went to see what was happening to my dad.
That night, I was woken up early in the morning by my Aunt Carol–who lived four hours away. That was my first clue that something was up. Then she let my brother and I know that our dad had passed away at the hospital that night.
He was 37.
So, naturally, when September 28 comes along, I tend to have a lot on my mind.
I’m working on scanning a lot of the old family photographs for my mom, so I thought I’d share a few of my dad while I’m thinking about him.