We all call Poppa in the morning to wish him Happy Birthday.

Afterward, I suggest to the kids that they should tell their friends:  It’s my Poppa’s birthday and he’s 84.

Mostly because I think it is pretty impressive.  He takes daily walks, golfs, enjoys Stratford and Shaw, has never lost his love of shopping.   He’s got a full head of hair and most of his own teeth and the same wonderful smile I’ve known all my life.

My son asks from his room as he makes his bed:

“If Poppa is 84, that means he was born in 18….”

I roll my eyes.

“1928,” I correct. 

“That’s what I meant to say,” my son says.

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