January 22nd, 1944, was the day my dad was born. The closest hospital to his parent's northeastern North Dakota farm was in Canada, so he was born a Canadian and naturalized as a U.S. citizen at age seven. There's much I could tell you about his life and his birthdays, but one birthday I clearly remember is the one when I was a second grader. I was sick. With the stomach flu. And my dad stayed home from work to take care of me. Not a great way for him to spend his birthday, but what a great dad.
Sadly, my dad died in 2010 shortly after his 66th birthday. Like many people, he died much too young, and because of his cancer, he suffered much too much before his death. And because he meant so much to me and my family and my kids, I used to make the lemon cake he loved -- every January 22nd.
In fact, I still do.
To remember who he was. To celebrate who he was. Because we miss him. Because we love him. And because we wish he was still with us. So this Wednesday, January 22nd, my family will eat lemon cake and remember.