Friday, May 22, 2020

The Rule of 72

     No, not that Rule of 72

     May 22, 1948 a baby boy was born and he grew up to be one contrary old cuss. Youngest of 7 siblings (one look at him and his parents knew there would be no more).

     He was born in a "sawmill camp" where his father, of Cherokee heritage, was the blacksmith for the mill. The father could neither "read nor write" (not unusual for a southern country boy born in 1902) but was great with numbers and his hands. Sadly the father died in 1959 when an eleven year old boy needed him most.

     Born to a small woman (on tippy-toes, she could not stand five feet) of 41 years (born 1907 from German stock) that loved and protected him for 31 years. Any decent traits (some would say, "there aren't any) are the direct results of this angel. All others are despite of her best efforts.

     Like most 72 year olds, I have done some things I am very proud of (a.k.a ZAC), some that were not my finest moments, some regrets, some that were illegal or unlawful, and one thing that was none of these that I will take to my grave.

    All-in-all, 72 is just the number of years that have molded me into the person that is sitting here typing this. 

    As for the "rule of 72", this septuagenarian can only say, "It has been one hell of a ride".


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