This is one of my favorite pics of my dad, taken about 15 years ago when he was 60 years old. With his signature flat top haircut and cup of Maxwell House, he wears a shirt that still hangs in his clothes closet, kept company by hangers full of other flannels, corduroys and denims, some so thread bare that the light shines through. In contrast, his dresser holds plenty of brand new duds, still folded and packaged with the tags still on, gifts from Christmases and birthdays past. Here, he stands in his driveway, possibly eying Lady in the hay bottom of his three acres or the goings-on of the kinfolk up the road who, years ago, encroached, albeit legally by way of auction, upon my maternal grandparents’ 65-year-old farm.

Daddy was physically strong and active, self-reliant, hard-working, very well-mannered, responsible and extremely loyal. And he was my ally in our immediate family of four. Although we shared no DNA (he adopted me at age 3 after he and my mother married), we were, unlike my mother and much younger sibling, both introverted and quiet, most comfortable with those we knew well. Although on opposite ends of the political spectrum, we left well enough alone and didn’t hold our differences against each other. He was my familial sounding board and voice of reason. Did I mention he was an excellent dancer? Square dance and waltz.

But, like most of us, he had a bad habit and a deadly one at that. He smoked from the time he was a teenager and only gave it up for good 10 years ago when he was diagnosed with emphysema. If not for that, I believe he would’ve beat the pneumonia. So, seven weeks ago, when he first went into the hospital and asked if I could possibly come and help my mom who was left home alone, I never imagined that I would return to Virginia without my father safe, back at home. Only 15 hours prior to his death, when the nurse said, “I think we’re coming to the end,” did I then realize that he would not recover. I think daddy realized a day earlier when he started demanding the powerful anxiety pill that he knew would keep him sedated. Still, I can’t believe he didn’t make it.

The three songs on the playlist accompanied a video of photos of my dad throughout his life that played continuously during the visitation in the funeral home’s chapel. Visitors quietly chatted and mingled and hopefully conjured up memories of him in better times as they gazed upon his urn and Surveying the North Forty, which sat framed on an easel. As daddy requested, there was no preacher and no fuss. Anything that family members and a few close friends wanted to say about him was reserved for the cemetery the following day. I think he would have approved as all the to-do was much like him–quiet, unassuming, friendly and comfortable.