While organizing my files a few weeks ago, I found a letter that I could not recall ever having seen. In the summer of 1964, my father was in Raleigh, North Carolina, taking teacher-training courses at his alma mater, Saint Augustine’s College. On June 22, he took pen in hand to write my mother a few lines. “I really will be glad when the baby comes,” he said.
The baby? Me.
“Every time the phone rings I listen to hear if it is for me,” he continued. “I’ll be home Friday evening or Saturday depending on what we have to do.”
He came home early Friday, June 26. And I was born at Mercy Hospital that afternoon.
My mother the month before I arrived, in Sunday-best, kitten-heel slingbacks and oversized cloche.
Today I am 60 years old. It’s an odd thing for me to hear coming out of my mouth, but I am grateful for every year. My father didn’t quite make it to see me here, but my mother’s love buoys me every day.
My father and me the month after I arrived. We lived at 706 Ward Boulevard (on land once owned by Samuel H. Vick) until early the following year.
I’ve been blessed in so many ways across these six decades — in family, friends, love, health, career. There are no greater gifts. Cheers to the next!