happy birthday dad

today would have been my dad’s 67th. or, i suppose i should say it is his 67th, in light of the story i am about to relate.
two days ago when we were up in ojai, my dad’s best friend chuck called on bret’s cel. he had some interesting news: he had spoken with my father recently. now, this was a fairly hilarious thing to hear initially, given the extreme skepticism that i know my dad had for anything that smacked of psychics and mysticism. also, i know that chuck, although i am sure he has had his share of out-of-body experiences, has also been a skeptic when it comes to “the woo-woo shit”. although i wanted to become a parapsychologist when i was 12 or so, i lean heavily towards disbelief myself.
given all this, chuck became acquainted through several friends with a man who claims to speak with the dead, and whose communications with them appeared, to these friends, to be spot on accurate, containing details no one could possibly have known, etc. figuring that a session was worth it for shits and giggles, he went to see the guy.
apparently my dad had to push some of the other people waiting to talk out of the way. it sounded like if there is such a thing as elbowing your way to the front of the crowd in the hereafter, my dad has learned how to do it. his first words? “i can’t fucking believe i’m doing this”. that sure sounds like my dad.
the session went on from there, and i suppose i will wait until i hear the tape of it before i decide for myself whether it is truly believable. from what chuck told me, it does sound like dad. and his advice is to spend more time playing with your toys. there is a heaven, and you don’t need to be religious to get in.

my dad told stories, he raced motorcycles, and he made cool things. and more cool things. and that’s not even close to the half of it. i still miss him enough to cry about it occasionally. like two days ago.






2 responses to “happy birthday dad”

  1. loomis Avatar

    I remember, sometime around 1980, coming over to your house to get into trouble and finding your dad in the back room of the garage, wearing welder’s goggles and a smock — gears and chains and the smell of oil. Parts of the Citroen or the BMW sidecar on the bench; a welding torch in his hand. “Hey Louie, how’s it goin’?” A smile. Then inside to see your mom preparing the lemon chicken (I never did get that recipe). Piano and guitar and Bret on bass. I always felt like your dad new everything mechanical, like Dick Van Dyke in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. I miss him too.

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