My dad was not a fussy man.
He probably never gave a minute’s thought to whether anyone would remember him once he was gone.
I’m pretty sure he lived mostly in the moment … he didn’t sit around reminiscing about growing up or growing old, or wonder or worry about what was going to happen next.
Not out loud, anyway. Not with me, anyway.
(Did I have a mohawk?)
One of the only things my dad would reminisce about – and he talked about it often – was a Basque restaurant he would stop and eat at in Fresno from the days when we lived in California and he would work the Sacramento-Stockton-Fresno circuit.
It must have been one helluva restaurant because my dad had a good long life and many meals with which to compare. He must have had plenty of other more interesting things to remember. He must have had other good meals. Better meals.
He must have. Continue reading