Growing up Roberts

Meet my Dad.

January 19, 1954, my Dad, Charles Geren Roberts, made his debut into this world.

Was he not the cutest stinkin’ little baby?  My goodness he was adorable.  He was born to Dwight (Granddad) and Gerry (Granny) Roberts in Oakland, California while my Granddad was stationed there during his time in the Navy.  They were from central Illinois, and after Dad was born they moved back to raise their family on a farm in rural Gifford.

My dad was the oldest of five kids.

He grew up with two sisters, Linda and Susan, and a little brother, Steven.  Later in life, when my dad was older, my grandparents adopted a little girl, Jennifer.  They grew up on a farm outside of town where my dad enjoyed being outside and playing in the hay mow.  (Although, I’m not sure how much he enjoyed playing in the hay mow after jumping out of it one time and having a pitch fork go through his leg! Ouch!) He was active in 4-H and raising animals, in particular a black and white steer.  You could always find an animal running around whether it be a cat, dog, horse, pony, sheep, chicken, cow, or even an occasional pig.  After school the kids would all saddle up and while the “city kids” took off on their bikes, Dad and his siblings would go for a trail ride.  Dad would take Buddy, Linda took Ginger, and Susan would hop on Penny.   He loved playing basketball and football and was just your typical boy, rough housing with his siblings.

But, from the very beginning, God and Family were always of the utmost importance to the Roberts family.

The ornery one up there…. yea, that’s my Dad.  And I wonder where my son, Brock, gets it.

As I was sitting here looking at these pictures, wondering who some faces belonged to, I got to thinking, I wish I knew more about my Dad’s time as a boy.  I know about his time as “My Dad,” but I wish I knew more.  Why didn’t I ask him to tell me more stories?  Why didn’t I have him write things down so I could look back on his memories and  picture him riding Buddy or dodging mice in the hay mow?  Or at least just so I could trace his letters with my fingers and feel closer to him knowing he penned the words on the page.  Do you ever do that?  You get a card in the mail and you just want to feel the writing and know that the sender had their hands right there on that spot and feel closer to them?  Maybe it’s just me.  I’m weird.

When my Dad was in the early stages of the disease, he could still remember times from his childhood.  He couldn’t tell me about what he did earlier that day, but ask him about a time out on the farm and he was quick to tell a story.

I share this post because I want you to get to know my Dad, I want to share his story.

Not only am I hoping to help other families navigate this disease, I want to set the scene for you, share with you who my Dad was… as a boy, as a man, as a Dad…

Before Alzheimer’s.