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Alas, My Brother

My father passed away on Thursday afternoon, a week ago, after a long illness. He spent the last four years in a nursing facility. On the previous Tuesday the nursing home called and said that he was not doing well at all and we should now consider hospice, which is code for the end. My mother signed the papers that afternoon. The process upset my mother, who is usually all together, but on Wednesday, the next day, the nursing home called to say that he was oh so much better today, and he was. That recharged her good spirits, but it was to be short-lived. The very next day the nursing home called to say that he wasn't well at all. My mother spent the morning with him and then went to lunch with friends, something that was on her calendar for a couple of weeks, before going back to sit with him in the afternoon. He passed away quietly while she was with him.

We buried my father on Monday, January 21.

He was the last surviving member of the historic Daytona Beach Harton Brothers Garage. Many memories died with my father. Had his thoughts not been robbed by dementia, to the extent that he recognized no one in his last years, he would have had much more to share about his past. He was a member of the secret Freemasons and both a US Marine and a retired non-commissioned officer in the US Air Force. He was the youngest Marine to achieve the rank of Master Sergeant during World War II. I was fortunate to witness my first Masonic funeral and to see first-hand the real camaraderie of men in a funeral with full military honors. Still I find myself unable to say more than this.