87

I think you can tell by the eyes. Ornery.

Hardly a day goes by that somebody doesn't stop by the counter and remember something about my Dad. Usually something ornery. I can relate.

He was a great whistler, and he'd warble "Silver Threads and Golden Needles" repeatedly because he knew it drove me crazy. He teased mercilessly about boyfriends and cooties. He hugged the stuffing out of you and pounded you on the back as he squeezed. When I baked cookies, he'd take a bite and fall down on his back and kick his legs and play dead. Ornery.

He and his pack of old guy pals would sit out on the mall every afternoon and drink coffee; we'd hear them giggling like little girls. I don't know what they were laughing about and it's probably better that way. We had a gum machine in the shop for many years, and he kept a pocket-full of pennies for kids; he told little boys that the yellow gumballs made girls kiss them. He asked little girls if they were married. Ornery.

Ask his grandkids. He was famous for The Knee Trap: he'd catch you as you walked by his recliner, trap you between his knees and wouldn't let go until my mom hollered at him. Generations of children fell for, "Look here" and were rewarded with a gentle squirt of pool water in the face. Or he'd grin, extend his fist and invite you to, "Put your finger in here." And even though you knew it would hurt like the dickens, you would. (Even after I was a grown-up, I couldn't resist... I guess I liked to see him smirk). Ornery.

He'd smooth his eyebrow with his pinky and say, "Aren't I purty?" No matter what sort of mortal injury you had, he'd proclaim, "I've had worse places in my eye." He claimed everyday that, "Tomorrow's my birthday." Ornery.

Well, today IS his birthday. He'd be 87 ornery years old. He's been gone four years, and just before he died, he told me, "I've had a happy life. I'd like to do it all over again, every day of it."

Ornery, yeah... and happy. You can tell by the eyes.