My Dad and Mom raised thirteen of us. Each of us became our own person, steeped in the tradition of God, Family and Country. When I was little, I remember asking my Dad why there were so many of us, and he told me that when he was a little boy he was quite ill with pneumonia, whooping cough, and a constant fever. Of course, his Mother would not let him go out to play and he would sit at the front window and look at the house across the way where the family living there had seven children. The children that lived there played and had fun together. He told me that he decided then that he wanted a child for each window of that house, so when he looked out of his window he would have a playmate too. He then told me there were thirteen windows in that house, and that was why there were thirteen of us. I always thought my Dad made up this story, and when he died we went to his hometown for his funeral service. Afterwards, I drove by his old house for the memories, saw a bunch of children playing across the way, looked at their house and counted the windows. Of course, there were thirteen! I then felt connected to my Dad, and still do. Thanks for sharing your story about your Father. Aren't all Fathers special? Merry Christmas to you and yours.