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    My Dad was born in 1906 and it took him until 1946 to find the right mate, my Mom. He was 42 when he became the proud Papa for the first time, and I was born two years after my brother, when Dad was 44. His new family was his pride and joy.

    In January of 1950 a horrible Whooping Cough epidemic hit our hometown. My brother caught it first, but at two, he was a little better able to ward off the terrible consequences. I was only six weeks old! My Mother said the coughing spells would be so severe, my little body would turn completely blue. I was admitted to the hospital, where I would stay in intensive care for the next month and a half.

Papa was tired.

    All his life, Papa had been a hard working man. He had established his own contracting business and put tremendous pride into every home on which he worked. Now, to combat mounting hospital bills, Dad took a second job; driving a taxicab at night. He would finish his first job at the normal time, hurry home to dinner, then rush out the door grabbing the jacket and hat, which were official wear for a taxi driver. It wasn’t many days before this hectic schedule became a physical challenge. Papa was tired.

    Mama didn’t wonder where he got the strength; the nurses at the hospital had supplied the answer to that. Every night Papa would park his taxi near the hospital and plod through the snow to the isolation ward. Outside the window, he would tap on the glass and the night nurses, accustomed to find him standing there, would gently prop me up in my tiny bed. Satisfied that I was recovering, Dad would trek back to his taxi to finish his shift. He never missed a night. Mom said the nurses were so touched by his devotion they would often stroke my little fingers an extra minute or two, or put an extra blanket snugly around me as Papa walked away. These little touches, along with Papa’s love, surely must have made a tremendous difference in my recovery.

    Papa suffered a heart attack and left us without warning one January morning in 1985. It wasn’t until weeks later, as I was leaving his gravesite, I paused to notice the imprints my footsteps made in the snow. I slowly looked back to where they led. “A trail of love, Papa,” I whispered, “just like the many you made for me so long ago.”