7.5 Day 30 Happy Birthday, Dad

Fred Arnold Hannu passed away on May 27, 1973. I was 13. He was 51.
He was born on July 6, 1921, in Finlayson, Minnesota; son of Albert and Jenny Hannu (ne Koski).
I was always DADDY'S GIRL - - helping fix the car, doing outdoor things; fishing, being outside. He was my hero.
Mom, alone now for 36 years, found a typed note the other day, typed on our very old typewriter. It says (spaces included as they read):

Dea r Da ddy, I can not type very good , but I will write a ny how. Thank you for the dolor. I will spe nd it. I will buy a Christas present for you and Mother. YOU know w hat I might get. LOVE YOU De bbie

I can type better now, Dad. And believe me, if I could buy any present for you, I would be delighted. Mom is strong, funny and happy; though her body is sore from arthritis and fibro mylagia; her eyes require some surgery, and she has a pacemaker. She has been a heck of a trooper through it all.
I wish I couldv'e asked you questions about the war. About being wounded in northern Africa. About coming home and marrying Mom. About the Pine Lake Dance Hall and Moms little sailor suit! About your childhood and what you remembered. About your brothers, Grandpa and Grandma. About Barbie and I. And what you loved in our Mom.
Knowing that you were a 'gadget guy' and a great fan of Popular Science, I imagine that you would marvel at cell phones. The Internet. Outer space. Modern medicine. Nutrinos. Computers. Digital technology. I remember how you always wanted to build a plane, and fly to Maine - which held some interest and mystique for you. I remember how the electronics store in Robbinsdale used to call you up to try to find a particular part, when they didn't have one and you probably did.
I remember how you quit deer hunting, long before there were restrictions placed on the kill, because you feared that if we kept hunting such numbers the deer would die out.
I remember how you taught Mom to mix oil and gas for the lawn mower, so that she'd know how to use it. That was after your second heart attack and before your death.
I remember when we brought Tigger to North Memorial Hospital, so you could see him from your window in the heart unit. I remember that I wasn't allowed to go in to see you, because I was too young.
I remember how your flannel jacket smelled. The stubble of your beard. The smell of the Velvet pipe tobacco. Carrying down coffee to you in your basement ham radio chair. Cleaning your ears with a bobby pin - I still can't believe you let me! - while you watched TV.
I remember you tucking me in and saying my prayers at night.
I remember not crying at the funeral, and crying like a dripping faucet ever since.
Happy Birthday Dad. Miss you, still. LOVE YOU De bbie.