My dad loved a good deal.  He loved getting something for nothing.  He was thrifty to a fault.  He loved money but he did not value material possessions one iota.  Money was a score card.  It separated you from those less intelligent or hard working.  But spending money on ostentatious living was frowned upon.  

When mom was alive, she spent money on the things that she liked to spend money on.  She slipped money to my sister for her children’s tuition, she bought nice presents for her kids and even nicer ones for her grand kids. She liked to dress herself and my dad in designer clothes.  They had a guy at James Davis.  Mom expected Dad to buy her expensive gifts and he did not let her down.

But once mom died, dad settled into a life of frugality that was almost spartan and was certainly comical for a man of his means. He bought his khakis in bulk at Walmart, ditto for his shirts.  He would go all over town looking for the cheapest tomato. But mostly he just did without.

He was a staple at the local Chinese-all-you-can-eat-buffet,
and he would tell me about each day’s offerings, all 58 individual items, even though they rarely changed.  He had a mind like a steel trap.  That comes in handy when you’re blind.  Another story for another day.  Chinese-all-you-can-eat-buffets don’t attract a well heeled clientele.  Dad liked to complain about the other patrons.  One day at the fried catfish section, someone bigger and badder blocked him out and got the last piece.  The lady with the new batch of catfish saw it all go down and she put not one, not two, but THREE pieces of freshly fried catfish on dad’s plate.  He had only planned on getting one piece, but since she had put three pieces on his plate, he decided to eat two and take the third piece home to eat later.  I said, “Dad, these Chinese-all-you-can-eat-buffets generally don’t allow you to take things home.”  He said, “I know, I put it in my pocket.”

Have you ever heard a song that stopped you dead in your tracks?   Most songs have to grow on me.  I listen to them over and over until they are imprinted on my brain.  The repetition is comforting. The Wood Song by the Indigo Girls was the theme song of my mother’s death. I would listen to it ad nauseam and cry buckets. Well, I just found the soundtrack for my dad’s death. This song touched me from the very first moment “The roses came but they took you away.” I’m all in.  I stay in the car until the song is finished.

Dad, you were home in your bedroom just like you wanted. Your last lucid moment had been on Thursday.  Melisse and I were keeping vigil. Waiting. Early Monday the sitter called us down.  It was over.  It was peaceful, it was good.  You were in Heaven and we had no regrets. But then reality kicked in, phone calls, paperwork, funeral home, goons with white gloves.  Melisse took over.  I was spent.  I was up stairs napping when I heard them come to get you.  Two Gothic weirdos right out of central casting.  I swear, one of them had a handle bar mustache and a driving cap.  They zipped you up in a bag and took you away.  They left a single red rose on the bed where you had been.  That part was creepy.

Later that afternoon, I overheard Melisse on the phone with the funeral home. “What do you mean you don’t have him?  Somebody came and got him? Where the heck is he?” Sorry Dad, but we temporarily misplaced you. It turns out “that funeral home up there on Park Avenue” was not specific enough. My bad, I’m from out of town.

Today,pulling into my driveway, I hear this song by The Script.  I sit in my car listening to the rap lyrics, sometimes profane,  until the song is over.  I cry buckets.  I’ve found my theme song for you, Dad.  I miss you.