Something To Hold On To

<p><span style=background-color: rgba(249 249 249 1); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Living with a ninety-year-old dad was like dancing with a partner. Sometimes we were in sync with the music and each other. Sometimes we stepped on each other's toes. Still the dance went on.</span></p><p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(249 249 249 1); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Dad had two standard replies if someone asked How are you?</span></p><p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(249 249 249 1); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Well I got out of bed this morning and Could be better or could be worse too. Life was better when he spent months at his camp on Lake Penage hammering sawing and chopping wood. He would take the grandchildren out fishing and a Swedish song would float over the water.</span></p><p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(249 249 249 1); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Life was worse when he had to sell this forty-year-old camp. The world was a better place when we took a trip to his home in Finland and stayed with his brother. It was worse when I bought a property on Manitoulin Island. He disagreed with the purchase and refused to visit my camp for six months.</span></p><p></p><p><span style=background-color: rgba(249 249 249 1); color: rgba(0 0 0 1)>Dad collapsed shortly after his ninety-eighth birthday. We all think he decided it was time to go. Life had filled his cup to the brim.</span></p><p></p>