Celebrating my dad's 85th birthday at the Solid Rock Cafe

Wendell and I spent the weekend at a vacation resort. Doctors are required by the state licensing board to attend a certain number of educational courses every year. Evidently, the only way to force doctors to actually comply with this law is to host those courses at expensive resorts where people can party between classes. Or, in the case of this resort, shop till they drop in the 95 degree heat.

It is always a nice change of pace to get away like this. Wendell goes to school and I stay in our expensive hotel room and write. And read. And think. Occasionally, we venture out for food.

These days have been lovely, and I’m grateful for them. But I also had one truly great day just before we left town. My mother got sick (which is bad), and she agreed to let me come pick her and my dad up and drive them to our town so Wendell could fix her. (which was good.)

It happened to be my father’s 85th birthday. (which was very, very good.) We drove through the green countryside, and my dad commented on everybody’s crops. He told stories about when he used to haul loads of rock or lime to farmers on some of these back roads. And then the local crop duster swooped across a field just ahead of us in his yellow bi-plane. He treated us to a few dippity-do’s before landing on his air-strip right beside the road.

Later, we had a birthday lunch with various members of our happy clan. Then I drove my parents home through a thunder storm of Biblical proportions! There we were in our 55th year together, making a new (and slightly frightening) memory.

All-in-all, it was the perfect kind of day. One you can’t buy at a fancy resort.