After almost 2,000 miles, I got Dad settled in his house and returned to Brian Head, another successful road trip. More often than not I brag up my dad, telling others about how he golfs once a week and walks a mile and a half a day, at 93 years old. And while all that is true, this trip slapped me up the head with his age.
We're all aging, most of us in denial (I know I am), looking at our younger selves in the mirror, seeing our spouse as the younger version of themselves. Yet Dad would get out of the car and I could almost hear him creak. Time marches on and takes its toll on the man that survived the Depression, World War II, and (horrors!) life without Facebook. Speaking of that, the electronics in his life confuse and frustrate him, even if I encourage him that they confuse and frustrate all of us.
Dad stays active, taking care of his house, serving at St. Vincent De Paul, and his church. Yet his world shrinks as his body yields to the onslaught of time. When Dad grouses about being unable to do things, I reply, "Well, most people your age are dead." After helping him unload at his house, I could leave knowing he'd take care of the place just fine.
I guess it's best to look at the upside: His is a life well lived. Glad to have him safe at home.