in memory

Jimmy P. Clifford
September 8, 1938 - March 8, 2008

We buried my Daddy on Tuesday. It still doesn't seem real. Saturday night I received a phone call from my brother that I'll not soon forget. It was a shock to all of us. Twelve hours later I was at the airport, on my way to Tennessee.

We've done this drill enough times that I planned the funeral on the plane and had a list of pastors, pallbearers, and songs by the time I was on southern soil. Folks in our hometown were super gracious, providing us with places to stay, childcare, and plenty of fried chicken and sweet tea.

While it was sad, and I still feel like I've been punched in the stomach, there were some funny and some surreal moments. Maybe I'll write about some of them in detail in the days to come. But, oh, the stories I could tell.

Like the lady who apologized for missing the funeral due to a monthly dog grooming appointment. And the dog wears little girl baby clothes. But he is a boy dog.

Or the close-talking man who I don't really know who asked to be a pall bearer not long before the service. I had to delicately turn down his request - because he had asked one of my brothers, who told him to talk to me because I was making those decisions. Yeah, thanks.

Or the cousin who had his camera at the cemetery and wanted family pictures.

Can't really top the preacher who mentioned (and not just in passing) my parent's separation in the course of the eulogy, though. Coulda gone all day with airing that, I think. Maybe I'll send him a therapy bill, cuz that's just bringing up too much old baggage.

We're 0 for 2 in the parent department now.