Monday, March 12, 2012
My daddy was born in 1926, which means he grew up during the Great Depression. Though his family did a lot better than many during that time, vacations were something they could only dream of.
He only told me of one vacation that they were able to take, and it was to Galveston Island.
When we were kids, we went to Galveston every year, at least once. We took other vacations from time to time, but most years, we went to Galveston. Even after my parents discovered it was cheaper to rent a house on the Bolivar peninsula, we just slept there. The vacation was in Galveston.
July 1995, my sister was home on leave from the Navy, and Dad rented a cabin on the beach. Cody and I went down for the long weekend, but we couldn't stay the whole week. We drove home on the 4th. Ten days later, my daddy died.
I'm glad, then, that the last time I saw him was on the beach. Walking the Strand. Eating at Fisherman's Wharf. Driving the seawall. Riding the ferries.
I'm glad, then, that the last time I saw him was at Galveston.
It was my dad's happiest place on earth.