Nostalgia and ponderings

I don't know why, but I have immense trouble remembering birthdays.  If not for the advent of Facebook, I'd miss birthdays for most of my family and friends - and those not on the internet often get their cards and presents late.  So why is it that I'm nostalgic today, remembering a man I lost 33 years ago, simply because he would have been celebrating his 85th birthday tomorrow?

Maybe it's because Dad was born on a particularly memorable date: 8/28/28.

Maybe it's because I just celebrated my 52nd birthday in May and he passed away just a little over a month before he would have been 52.

Or maybe it's just because my angels come back to haunt me with fair frequency, as I also remembered the birthday of a deceased friend in March and my cousin's birthday in June with no problem.

On days like today, when I grow nostalgic about my childhood with my fun-loving Dad as my male role model, I also ponder the questions I will have to wait to ask him when I pass on myself.

Such as: Was he upset that I stubbornly refused to finish college when I was told by both the head of the English Department and the head of the Theater Department that I couldn't chose a major in English and a minor in Theater because "the two are NOT related"?  (My dream when he was alive was to become an actress, and he had teased me about "being Marilyn Monroe".  After meeting others in the theater department in UMO who felt that ANY show was meant to showcase THEIR talent, and that anyone who wasn't the star of the show needed a good backstabbing to insure that the STAR got all the press, I had opted to go to teaching English and being the Drama Club advisor after school.  Both dreams fell to the wayside when I was told that I could quit college - or waste my money by following only my major and forgetting about anything else I might have interest in doing....)

Another question that I ponder is:  What would he think of my writing?  Would he be proud of me for getting published, as my mom is, or would he tease about my writing being "just bodice rippers"?

I miss Dad, and wish that I could speak to him, just once.  It would make me feel much less concerned about the way I'm living my life if I just knew that I was fulfilling my goal of making him proud of how I turned out.