My dad told me I used to sit on the floor of the second floor of our home in Katonah, New York and adamantly demand he replay my favorite song, Pogo, Pogo, over and over. Not only did he have to play it continuously but he had to make sure that the song began at exactly the right spot each time. If the needle on the record was off by a centimeter I would break down. It got so annoying that he finally decided to record it on his niagra and loop it. Heaven on earth. I've noticed that I love to play songs now over and over again until I can't bear it anymore.
We dug my dad's grave 7 years ago in April on his property in New Hampshire. It was spear-headed by my sister, Joanna and engineered by my half-brother Billy, 14 at the time. It took all day from early morning with the gnats buzzing around our heads and the rain coming down in a light drizzle. We brought his simple pine coffin down from the barn, roughly rigged to carry with heavy rope slung underneath the wooden box. I being the eldest was at the helm. We slid because the ground was wet and there was still mud in large patches. We lowered it into the 6'x6' hole we had dug and covered it with dirt. I couldn't cry.
I think he would have been proud after all he always joked how when he was old and infirm he would go down into the field, dig a hole, rig a board so when he shot himself his fall on the board would precipitate the dirt to tumble and cover him up. He was a holocaust survivor. And loved rigging stuff.
(c) 2010
