My dad turns 87 on Sunday. He was born in Armorel, Arkansas, on August 24, 1927. Lindbergh had just flown the Atlantic. Dad was named Charles in his honor. His middle name is Pinkney, the name of his grandfather who raised my dad's mom. He was number four of 13 children, of which 12 grew to adulthood. I thought a few lines in his honor would be appropriate.
Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, on this continent, a new baby boy, conceived in Armorel, Arkansas, and dedicated to the proposition that cotton farmers have lots of babies. Now we are engaged in a great test of longevity, testing whether that boy, or any baby so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow, his life. He accomplished that through the way he lived. It is for us, the living, to be dedicated here to the legacy he is leaving behind. He taught us that to Jesus we owe the last full measure of devotion. We highly resolve that his example will not be left behind in vain.
Happy birthday, Dad.
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