This my second Father's Day without my Dad. His last several years, the lights had been dimming for him but the past was still in focus. Just the other day, I was thinking about the "streamlined church" (like something from the '39/40 NYC World's Fair, only better) somewhere here in Indiana, I can never remember where, and thought, "I'll have to ask Dad." Only I can't. There's still a big old Dad-shaped hole where he was.
Looking at the nifty Allstate scooter yesterday, the salesman said, "That's the machine that ended it for Cushman," and I was reminded Dad had had one (threw a rod one day while he was riding along, an experience he didn't recommend).
I'm not especially close to my family. I'm a pretty difficult person generally and my job often results in inflexible, odd hours on three-day's notice at best. Out of a good half-dozen weddings for my siblings, nieces and nephews, I've managed to attend one (1).
It doesn't keep me from missing them.
Sometime today, I'll stop by the tiny cemetery that holds the family plot, at least three generations, probably not yet mowed by the greasy little weasel that inherited the place. I'll spend a little time with my Dad. There aren't any more answers or anecdotes but that place -- well within his roaming grounds growing up, well within many of his stories -- is Dad's last little spot on this earth.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago