. Spinning .

My father-in-law spoke very little, was not a man for small talk.  The sixteen years of Monday night dinners I came to call "The Longest Hour."  But he would get going on the war–the big one–WWII.  His face would light up and he’d tell of the cold, the finagling for food and cigarettes, the devastation of Europe’s cities, the landing at Normandy.  He’d break into songs played by Glenn Miller, or sit in his car in the driveway listening until the CD stopped before he’d struggle out and shuffle in to visit.

As he lay in the flag-draped casket, the big bands played for him one last time.  "Hold That Tiger" caused some giggling, but it was so very much him.  At the cemetary, old men in uniform, stood straight and tall, though some amount of belly hung over their belts, as proud of their military service as he was.  Shots were fired, piercing the morning with their short bursts of life.  Solemn salutes to the man who was one of their own, a brother in service to the U.S. of A.  The quiet folding of the flag which was given to my husband as the eldest son.  "Amazing Grace" drifted over the hills from a bagpipe, and the bugle played Taps. 

War is never a good thing, but when it becomes a necessity to defend and protect, and when there are men who proudly step up to offer their lives in answer, it is an example of caring and brotherhood that no amount of useless talk can replace.

They come because he was one of their own, a friend from decades ago they hadn’t seen for many years, a comrade from the War.  Some wheel in with walkers, some with knees too stiff to bend and kneel they stand and look down at him in the casket.  Still and quiet, expressionless and yet expression in their every slow step taken as they turn to try and recognize the children they remembered in the grownups in the room.

It seems like only yesterday, they think, and tomorrow’s coming soon.

With one father newly gone, and the other spinning in his grave, I think of time and how important it is to spend it well.

After two years, and in the middle of preparing for another sad goodbye, the lawyers come up with another illegal proposal: to sell all the property from my dad’s estate to my sister.  This, while we have a legally signed contract on a portion of it.  I realize that there are ways around it, if the current buyer agrees, but it is not, to my knowledge, a legal nor ethical thing to offer as a solution without that contingency.

But then, after paying the plumber to fix something in the bathroom that both he and my husband insisted was the cause of the leak, I paid him to come in and fix it again; exactly where I said it was leaking from.

One thing to learn from experiences like this, or maybe two:  first, don’t always trust professionals to know what they’re doing; and second, while many are inspired by someone who excels in their field to follow that goal, if you’re young enough, think of being inspired instead by the doofuses and choose that path to make a better and more honest world.

There is a shifting of the earth, the slightest change in placement in time as waterlogged from rain, it hesitates in its rotation and slips the slightest bit backward on its axis.

And no one’s noticed except the cricket somewhere in my shop loudly chirping his confusion at this turn.

My father-in-law died a little over an hour ago.  It is strange to be there at the very moment that life transforms into death.  I stood by his side, combing my fingers through his hair, silent.  They say the hearing is the last to go and I remember with my own mother, I talked to her; just little things, but I think she heard.  She died seconds after I promised her we’d take good care of dad.

But tonight with Frannie, it seemed so out of place because he was very hard of hearing, half reading your lips and his eyes were closed, already in a coma that came on suddenly just a little while before.  Fairly screaming out I love you, or Jimmy’s here, and asking him to wait for the others–John and his wife, who made it there in time, Diane and Marilyn who were only minutes late, and Janet who was an hour away.  It sounded crass in the silence of the room.  Jim was nervous, not knowing what to do.  Just hold his hand, I told him.  Then waiting.  The four of us watching an old man slowly leaving without moving at all.  Several times I checked his pulse, surprisingly strong for one whose breaths were so weak they were imperceptible.  Then the last time, there was no pulse at all. 

Privileged to be there at that very instant of metamorphosis, and yet so quietly a change for such a monumental step from life to death.

I’ll miss him.  I’m grateful to him for giving me his son.  I want to thank all of you who offered your wishes and prayers back in March when he was first taken ill.  He wasn’t uncomfortable all this time, the cancer spread and only caused him pain the past few days.  He left us quickly and peacefully, and I’m sure your prayers did help.