He had been picking up apples in his back yard. He was in his slippers. There was a bucket of apples at his feet.
He sat down in the porch swing and looked like he decided to take a nap.
He was 87 years old.
My aunt couldn't get him to wake up when she found him Sunday Morning. Looked like she got him a comforter just in case he was just sleeping.
So, who will tell me to answer my phone, not track mud in front of the shop, tell me not to borrow money for any foolhardy ventures, not smoke chronic, or use regional idioms, like exclaiming: "What in the Sam Hill is going on here?!"
In a month will we have turned the store into a pot dispensary and will we all be sitting around eating Doritos and listening to Peter Tosh surrounded by misplaced tools and mud from the irrigation tractors?
Will someone use real floor dry instead of 20 year old sawdust out of dad's basement?
Will I have borrowed $5 million to start an industrial hemp facility?
Time will tell...
One thing I know, I am not the man my father was, nor my uncle.
Perhaps, I will have to grow up now.