My father died in April 1993. To this day I cannot remember the date although I have looked it up multiple times. I think my mind tries to protect me but it fails me ultimately as I have insomnia every year about this time. Somehow, it goes away once I honor his passing and actively think about it. Last night I slept well for the first time in a couple weeks.

Looking back, I remember strange vignettes. Too many for one entry so I will post two tonight. First, their first child, my sister died at birth. They had her exhumed so she could be buried with dad. They sent her UPS in a box marked "Caution, human remains." Bet that raised an eyebrow in the brown truck community. It was a small box. She was a baby and buried for about 40 years.

When daddy and mom looked at caskets (an odd little joy you get when you know you have something deadly) they looked at urns for her. Daddy thought they were "ridiculous" in price. So here we were with the funeral to plan and the small UPS box on the mantle. The funeral director suggested looking for a humidor or chest so off 4 of the 5 sibs went to find Sis a box. For those of you who thought this was going to be another tearjerker, sorry. So here we were at Service Merchandise as it was open and close (we left her remains at home) "discussing" as siblings do which jewelry box was best the brocade one or the cherry one. There was a pushy saleswoman who kept saying, "Perhaps if you tell me what you are looking for, I can help?" I looked over at Les who was obviously fearful that one of us was going to unleash on her saying, "Well we need something big enough for the forty-year old remains of our dead and long buried sister."

Eventually, I was out voted and we got the brocade one cause it came with a small key with a tassel on it that we could give Mom. They had placed Daddy's hands so he could hold her and so we placed her little brocade casket within his hands and gave Mom the key. Southerners can be so bizarre in our prissiness.