Today would have been my father’s 97th birthday. June 6th was always a special day in our family, not only because it was Dad’s birthday, but because he shared it with his twin brother, Uncle Eugene, and later with a nephew as well. It is one of those dates that seems woven into the fabric of our family story.

My father, Gene Paul Ingalls, was born on June 6, 1929, just four months before the stock market crash that ushered in the Great Depression. He grew up during one of the most difficult periods in American history, watching a nation struggle, recover, and rebuild. That experience left a lasting mark on him, as it did on so many of his generation.

One characteristic I often noticed in Dad was his fascination with the pursuit of things. He seemed more interested in the challenge of acquiring something than in possessing it once it was his. He could spend months researching, planning, and talking about a purchase, only to lose interest shortly after bringing it home. It was an amusing trait at times, but looking back, I think it reflected the mindset of someone who had grown up when opportunities and resources were scarce. The chase itself held value.

As a young man, Dad was known for several things: his love of horses, his love of music, and his toughness. Being the smaller of the twins, he learned early how to stand up for himself. What may have begun as a necessity became part of his identity. He was not someone who backed down from a fight, and his reputation as a capable boxer grew to the point that a fight promoter once tried to recruit him. The opportunity never materialized because he was still too young and my grandparents refused to sign the necessary papers, but it speaks volumes about the determination and grit that defined him.

Music was another great passion in his life. Country and Western music, in particular, captured his heart. Hank Williams was among his favorite performers, and as a young man Dad dreamed of becoming a singer, traveling from town to town and making a living through music. Like so many dreams, however, life had other plans. Marriage, children, and responsibility arrived, and the realities of providing for a family took precedence. The dream of a music career faded, but his love of music never did.

Both my parents were raised on farms, and farming was the life they understood. When Dad felt the need to provide a safe and secure environment for his growing family, he turned to what he knew best. In 1969, we moved to a small hobby farm outside Waconia, Minnesota. There, my parents raised eight children and spent more than two decades building a life rooted in hard work, family, and the rhythms of the land.

Later in life, after selling the farm, Mom and Dad moved to northern Minnesota, a place Dad truly loved. The lakes, forests, and quiet beauty of the North Woods suited him perfectly. It was difficult to convince him to leave. He and Mom would occasionally escape the Minnesota winters by visiting me in Texas, spending time at a house I owned in Galveston. Mom often stayed for months, but Dad rarely lasted more than a couple of weeks before the pull of Minnesota called him home. Those visits produced more than a few memorable stories, but those are tales for another day.

Dad belonged to a generation of men who often expressed love through action rather than words. They believed their role was to provide for their families, protect them, and make sure they had what they needed. That was how he showed us he cared. As a child, I did not always recognize it. Like many children, I sometimes wished for a different expression of affection. But age has a way of bringing clarity, and looking back now, I can see the depth of his devotion in the sacrifices he made and the responsibilities he carried.

When Dad passed away in 2017, he left behind more than memories. He left a large and loving family, a legacy of perseverance and determination, and a remarkable collection of photographs, documents, and memorabilia that help tell the story of generations who came before us. Through those treasures, and through the people whose lives he shaped, a part of him remains with us still.

Today, on what would have been his 97th birthday, I find myself grateful, not only for the years we had with him, but for the lessons, stories, and legacy he left behind.

Happy Birthday, Dad. You are remembered, you are missed, and you are loved.