What the HELL??? I've been gone for a few weeks and blogger has dicked around with shit. This redo blows.
Anyway, this is more important. The elder Mr. Froth, Mr. Froth's dad, passed away last week after a bout with pneumonia. It was not entirely unexpected, but yet.
It was an end of an era. He was a force of nature: flirt, raconteur, caretaker, grandfather, father, father in law, all around grand guy. He had declined massively the last few years, losing his mobility and some of his mind. But, BUT
He continued to go to bankers conventions in his head at night (he was in sales management for Eastman Kodak from which he retired). He would speak with Mr. Froth and let him know that he'd been in Dallas the day before. Cool. Who was there?
He produced paintings within the last year that are incredibly good. Who the fuck knew? It's called art therapy and if y'all have any old peeps with access to it jump on it. I wish he had checked that out earlier in his life because he was remarkably talented, and we're talking about a non-walking wheelchair bound frail guy now.
It's been hard on Mr. Froth, his sis, me and the kids (all) because, while you know when you get to almost 89 any day could be your day.
I do NOT want to be non compos mentis and immobile at that age. I have advised everyone to wheel me out into the forest preserve, turn around with a finger to the corner of their mouths and say, "Oops! She was JUST there! Really. Where did she go?"
And the feral hogs or bobcats can have their way with me.
(For those aghast, no, I do not think suicide or assisted suicide is right. IT WAS A JOKE.)
Lift a toast to the elder Mr. Froth and know that he is bullshitting his eyeballs loose in heaven, arguing with his wife (oh, we'll have both of their ashes on our mantel until we scatter them over North Texas-yes we will. Forget the Mayans, the vortex may be our mantel in December.) scampering with everyone grand and glorious.
We loved him much and he loved back.