My dad, Ken Willoughby, in his youth.
Well it’s been quite a year, Dad.
Your grandchildren, now ten, seven, and five, are full of fire and vinegar and other stuff I’m sure you never accused me of. (insert laughter here.) They’ve all become great swimmers, they can now (amazement!) brush their teeth and help us put things away, and are actually starting to ask questions about how things work, what they’ll do when they grow up, and what it was like when I was a little girl.
Can you believe you now have eleven grandchildren, in various stages of their lives? Don’t worry for a second that they don’t know you.
My little girl has requested her namesake song from Neil Diamond on her first iPod (I’ll explain later, let’s just say it’s a bit different than the vinyl you used to play him on.) He still rocks, and your son, my big brother, sings a mean “Porcupine Pie” regardless of who’s listening. (I’ve saved all of his voice mails. They are my treasures.)
I’m edging closer to my forties, can you believe it? I’ve just purchased my first anti-aging makeup (yeah, I know you don’t know anything about that) and anti-wrinkle cream, and let’s just say, the years have begun to show.
Life is a hamster-wheel on which we attempt to keep up, and the kids keep us busy with questions about pop culture, why we aren’t cool, and what we can shop for. Remember when you used to take me to the record store for 45′s? Yeah, me too. Wish I had those.
The job is good, the blog is amazing–can you believe that over 150,000 visitors will read what we created here, Dad? You always told me that I could do anything that I wanted, and thank goodness I believed you (although I’m pretty sure you were exaggerating.)
Mom’s still the rock. She holds us together as best we can, with crazy schedules and challenging jobs and birthday parties and vacations. You’re missed at every one.
one of the few photos I have with my dad. That's me in the bottom left-hand corner, he's in the top right with the fancy hat 
Remember that story I told you about asking about you bowling in Heaven? Well, you come up often. They want to know what you looked like, what you loved, and what you were like. The memories are still with me, and I share them as often as I can, often with sleepy-headed kids with straight-out-of-the-bath sweet-smelling-heads as we lie on the same pillow, reading stories at night.
You’re in the brow of my ten-year old as he asks me unceasing questions, you’re in the tenacity of my seven-year-old, with the Irish temper, and when I look at my little five-year old girl, I see the curls you used to see and sing: K-K-Katie . . . beautiful, Katie. Keep watching, Dad. I think these little ones will amaze you, like they do me. XO, your Katydid.
