The picture on my phone swings from the small white dog with the shamrock bandana to the smiling face of my father.
"You know he's turning eighty his next birthday," my mother says, off camera, and this causes him to nod happily.
"I like telling the other guys I play pickleball with that I'm eighty," he says, still grinning. "They go 'whoa!' and then I've got 'em."
One year ago: Blizzard Travails
Two years ago: Eat Something
Three years ago: One At a Time
Four years ago: Practicing
Five years ago: Nothing Happens Without Something Else Happening (no blame)