In the 5 years since my Father passed away I have often reflected on the last months of his life. Dad never gave in to his coming fate tho' it must have been obvious to him. He and I planned jewelry, discussed new ideas, and relived past fishing trips. As he slowly was devestated by his illness I found myself praying for a kind release that was a while incoming. I remember I felt that I was given the gift of his suffering in that it eased the emotion of his death for me. Had his death been sudden and unexpected I would not have handled it well. Whether intential or not, his suffering was a final gift to me. And his death almost rejoiced.

Calling hours for Dad was truly a celebration. People came from ststes away to pay repects and see my Mom. The line of seven children was not a line of tearful mourners by happy celebrants shaking the hands of old friends, unseen for years, and remembering the ones that got away.

Dad was creamated and buried in his tackle box along a new Zebco reel, some Kush spoons, A piece of silver and gold, a good hammer and his Hallmark. Family and friends placed notes, pictures, a bottle of Wild Turkey, and other rememberances in the box. When he was burried we fired a cannon at the cemetary.

I have felt guilty at times over the years about how I was glad that his suffering saved me anguish. But my last view of Dad was him in his chair with the paper in his hands and a smile and "See Ya T'morrow Bubb" on his lips. It was as if he was saying, "Its Ok Donnie, I'm fine now".

At night in the shop when the house is silent and the flame of the torch is a small illumination. I know he is the shadows still.

Don