Final Meditations on Dad’s Death

Almost six months have passed since Dad died in Portland at the age of 93.

The probate period ended and I completed all the duties managing his estate as required by my appointment by the court as his personal representative. Only one task remains—settling his tax liabilities at the end of the year.

It was hard work and some thorny family issues the result of colossal entitlement emerged but I took the high road. It’s the only road in life to take. And it never gets any recognition. So be it. I know.

Some final thoughts on Dad:

I think of him often when I am performing physical labor or playing golf—two of our pastimes in my youth—if you can call physical labor a pastime.

He taught me how to do hard physical labor.

I came away with enough money from his estate to alleviate financial anxiety for the foreseeable future, although one never knows under the chaos of the Trump Dictatorship. I feel extremely fortunate have this security when so many Americans do not and their situation further erodes.

I plan on publishing a collection of Dad’s writing in 2026. I wish I had some of the letters he wrote home while serving as a combat Marine during the Korean War. I have no idea what happened to them.

Toward the very end of his life before the the last fall, hospice and drugs, we often discussed the current dismal state of American political life. I wanted Trump to go farther and farther and destroy every part of government and decency so we’ll be forced to start over and ditch archaic undemocratic institutions such as the Electoral College, Senate and Supreme Court.

Dad disagreed with me. He wanted Americans to rally and fight the greed, corruption and immorality and throw the bums out. He had faith. I waver.

I miss our talks.

I feel so lucky that I had a great relationship with him the last 40 years of his life. In my young adulthood, not so much, but that is not a story I will ever write about.

As of now, I don’t plan on writing anything about my experiences with him in assisted living although it is rich story of the type mostly absent in books, articles, posts, podcasts, TV shows and movies.

It occurs to me me that everything I do now, milestones and celebrations, I no longer have Dad in my life to share them.

And finally, a story about something that happened at his service at the veteran’s cemetery in Portland.

After the very emotional flag folding ceremony and playing of “Taps,” a Marine in full dress uniform handed me the folded flag and a leather-bound book.

I opened it and beheld a certificate of appreciation for Dad’s military service.

It was signed by the Commander and Chief of the US Armed Forces, the President of the United States of America, a draft dodging, veteran hating, piece of shit. His “signature” on such a document was so utterly profane and farcical that I started laughing through the tears.

Later, I considered sending it back to the Pentagon and giving them a piece of my mind. Then I thought about crossing out Trump’s vile name and substituting “Abraham Lincoln.” Dad would surely have approved of any decision I made.

For now, I haven’t done anything with it, or the flag. One day, I’ll know what to do.