Happy Birthday, Dad

Today my dad turns 90. 


Frank Lochridge was born in Illinois and raised in South Dakota.  His father was a Methodist minister.  He had one older brother, now deceased.  He was a soldier in World War II, a husband for 65 years, father to five boys and one girl, and grandfather and great-grandfather to many, many more. 


My father lived a good life by most standards.  He would argue with me, but I suspect he was kind of spoiled.  His father wasn't present, as we like to say now.  Then, it wasn't unusual.  So he was left to his mother's care.  To say she loved him dearly is an understatement.  In her eyes, he could do no wrong.  My daughter Jenny would say she wore "mom goggles."


Esther Lochridge called my father June, as in Junior.  We kids once tried to call him that, mocking his feminine moniker.  It didn't really go over.


My father loved all sports.  If it involved a ball, he played.  He was a natural and luckily was able to turn his athleticism into an occupation after college.  He would spend the next 25 years with the YMCA, mostly in Aberdeen, S.D.


Then a vacation trip in 1974 to California and back to South Dakota took my father, mother and two younger brothers through Montana.  I recall his excitement upon returning.  He and my mother had decided to sell everything and move to this wondrous place with grand mountains and forests and raging rivers.  But don't tell Esther.  Yet. 


It turned out to be the right decision.  He loved Montana and the challenge of making a living there.  He and my mother and two younger brothers became Montanans. They are Montanans.  And they were able to bring Esther to live with them for her final years. 


Now my father is in his final years.  For several years he has been gradually leaving us as dementia has pretty much replaced his ability to think and remember.  But he made it to 90 years!  That is an accomplishment.


Happy Birthday, Dad!