How Was It Growing Up

My chronological age is 74. My doctor on numerous occasions has informed me that I am biologically 15 years younger than my chronological age. I give God credit that I don’t look, act or think like a 74 year old man. My mother lived to age 96 and remained brilliant to her last day. I can still recall verbatim courtroom scenes that occurred 30 years ago. However, I have always been absent minded and often times get distracted by multiple thoughts to the extent I don’t recall where I left my readers. So, take your pick what age classification you deem appropriate.

Growing up, the dinner table was invariably filled with laughter. Everyone joined in. If my parents ever fought, none of their children ever witnessed it. My father was a medic in the Army and became a practicing pharmacist in Chicago. The big city just didn’t fit him, so he purchased on loan from my grandfather two old wooden elevators located in southeast South Dakota in a hamlet called Fedora. My mother was one of the few women from the depression era who earned a college degree. She was a school teacher who taught all eight grades in a one-room schoolhouse. Both worked from dawn to dusk and deeply respected each other. I have four siblings and we continue to enjoy each other.

My father gave my older brother and me  enormous responsibility. We too worked from dawn to dusk. By the time I was in the sixth grade, I had learned from my father and brother the elementary principles of accounting and could maintain all the various accounts of this small business. This background paved the way for future success.