My dad, James Burch, was born on February 7, 1914 on a mule ranch near Lockwood, Missouri. He was the 4th of 5 children. Today would have been his 95th birthday. He died at age 75 in the fall of 1989. It's still hard for me to believe it has been 20 years since I've heard his voice, but I've often felt his guidance, especially when I'm driving in bad weather. This picture was taken probably on my birthday in 1952. I was looking for photos of Daddy from his childhood but didn't have time to scan them into the computer before the day was over. I have good memories of him teaching me how to change a tire, ride a bike, hammer a nail, mow the lawn, and many more skills that a daughter should know. I also remember him baking cookies, grilling burgers on the outdoor brick barbeque he built himself, driving me and my fellow Girl Scouts to camp, and hemming my skirts for me when I was taking clothing classes in junior high. He was drafted into the army for service in World War II on the morning I was born, and after I heard the story, I was even more grateful that my Daddy was spared and allowed to guide me as I was growing up. If he were here now, I'm sure we'd be disagreeing about politics but I would relish hearing once again his stories of survival during the Great Depression. He devoted his life to seeing that my mother and I had a home and food and a chance at happiness. He asked little for himself except a little space in the garage to build his priceless model trains. Miss you Daddy, just as much as ever.
A Total Eclipse of the Heart
1 week ago
1 comment:
Until I saw the picture, I wouldn't have said that I remembered your parents, but I do. Your father passed the Communion Plate to me many times and later, I think, offered the Communion Prayers. There was always a feeling of solidarity about him.
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