The Father's Day That Came Early

The original blog was posted on Substack, over here. The original link. I figure I should let everyone here know as well.

In 1984, my father moved into the house I grew up in. When all the packing was done, he said he would be buried from his house. He was never going to move again. Period.

He got his wish.

On February 25, 2023, a Saturday night, he overdosed on his insulin…

Again.

For the last time.

EMTs arrived within minutes of being called and pronounced him dead around 7/8 o'clock. The Coroner picked up the body at 1:30am and left at 2am.

On Sunday, my wife Vanessa and I made it to 9am mass, coming in on the final notes of the procession. And then we cried through closing song “On Angels Wings.”

At 11:30am, my father's friend the funeral director showed up & walked us through the paperwork checklist. We’d get a dozen death certificates. He would be cremated—because we couldn’t fulfill his wish of “just put me in a garbage bag by the curb.” We’d get enough mass cards to bookmark our reading for decades.

The cost of the funeral will be only slightly less than moving us across the country with two tons of books. I guess I got a good deal on the move...or the funeral.

We cremated him, then had the funeral mass (it takes a week to get cremains). Funeral is still TBA.

Since we can't reach most of the relevant people (life insurance et al) on Sunday, we spent Sunday going through clothing. His idea of frugal meant “this shirt is stained... time to wear it backwards.” So we tossed a LOT. Why do people save this part for last?

Though this meme hit a little too hard today.

Before he died, my father ordered more books. They arrived that Monday.

We found something colorful to dress him in. It's both … shabby enough to be burned, but still good enough that he would still wear it to work. It’s very him.

But we had to move and bury him at the same time. We couldn't find  the deed to a prepaid cemetery plot that we've had for years.

We found plenty of photos for the funeral, and most of the paperwork.

So progress is happened.

I find myself crying during the mail, as I sort through every piece of begging mail for charities my father gave through, and many he didn't. I cried at the crap he ordered coming in. I cry at completely random times for idiotic reasons.

I cried reposting this blog on this URL.

So, it’s been a time.

I know in terms of having a blog and running an Indy business, I should end on a call to action. But “My dad’s dead, please buy my books” is the tackiest possible thing I can think of.

Be well and God bless.