Mister Speed on the...
My father...
was born September 5, 1920. He died May 16, 2008, and his funeral was May 23, 2008. He was 87.
I'm not, like, overly depressed or sad about it, mostly because I knew it was coming sooner rather than later. I mean, he had been sick since I was like twelve. After two stints in rehabilitation centers (after strokes, complications, and the lot) and after being essentially bedridden since around mid-2007, I knew it was only a matter of time before he just said "eff it" and went into the light.
Even as death had his number on speeddial, he did not compromise his values, persona or anything like that. He was still an honorable, kindhearted (albeit stubborn at times), joking (some of which were rather raunchy), levelheaded, pretty chill man that got to go out on his own accord. He wanted to die in his own home, not some government-operated piece of crap that only speeds up the process because they need the bed for someone else (in other words, a nursing home).
I was still up College Park when it happened. My father, basically, forced my mom to keep it from me until I got back home from finals, et al. Good strategy, because with my own medical conditions, having a dead daddy on the side? Eh...not good. Obviously, when I found out on the 21th (after I came back home), I was irate, as most people would be. And, I was a bit sad, especially when my mom pulls out these two boxes full of my father's army medals, Masonic pendants and all that type of stuff. But, I was honored that he left all of it to me. I mean, he could have went decked-the-eff-out to see St. Peter and Jesus, but my father was on that whole "can't take it with you" tip, which makes so much sense.
...Well, I'mma stop gushing about my daddy and get back to being the cynic that most of you know me as.
[By the way, the photo in this picture, it was taken of my father when he was about 21-22 years old]
My father...
was born September 5, 1920. He died May 16, 2008, and his funeral was May 23, 2008. He was 87.
I'm not, like, overly depressed or sad about it, mostly because I knew it was coming sooner rather than later. I mean, he had been sick since I was like twelve. After two stints in rehabilitation centers (after strokes, complications, and the lot) and after being essentially bedridden since around mid-2007, I knew it was only a matter of time before he just said "eff it" and went into the light.
Even as death had his number on speeddial, he did not compromise his values, persona or anything like that. He was still an honorable, kindhearted (albeit stubborn at times), joking (some of which were rather raunchy), levelheaded, pretty chill man that got to go out on his own accord. He wanted to die in his own home, not some government-operated piece of crap that only speeds up the process because they need the bed for someone else (in other words, a nursing home).
I was still up College Park when it happened. My father, basically, forced my mom to keep it from me until I got back home from finals, et al. Good strategy, because with my own medical conditions, having a dead daddy on the side? Eh...not good. Obviously, when I found out on the 21th (after I came back home), I was irate, as most people would be. And, I was a bit sad, especially when my mom pulls out these two boxes full of my father's army medals, Masonic pendants and all that type of stuff. But, I was honored that he left all of it to me. I mean, he could have went decked-the-eff-out to see St. Peter and Jesus, but my father was on that whole "can't take it with you" tip, which makes so much sense.
...Well, I'mma stop gushing about my daddy and get back to being the cynic that most of you know me as.
[By the way, the photo in this picture, it was taken of my father when he was about 21-22 years old]