January 3rd in Mentone, Indiana

I wish I knew what to say, but sometimes there really is nothing to say, or maybe nothing worth saying.  I'm 'home' in Ohio for the first time since my dad died.  We buried his ashes on Thursday in the cemetery in Mentone, Indiana where generations of my forebears are interred. 







It was especially hard for his wife.  She found it comforting to have his ashes in the house.  It was a part of him and this was something that I really don't think she was ready to do.

 No one wants to sleep my dad's bedroom.  It doesn't feel right.  For me, the main thing is that the house is too clean.  I miss his clutter and newspapers around everywhere.  Logan, his step-granddaughter, keeps saying that she sees him or expects to see him in his chair or walking around.  My uncle's resemblance to my father took her by surprise.

Here is the house in Mentone built by Emra Anderson, my dad's grandfather and my great-grandfather.  Emra was a large animal vet.  My uncle told of stories of watching his grandfather operate on a pig in what is now the garage out back.  This helped to convince my uncle that he did not want to become a doctor

Here I am next to the Mentone Egg.  Life is short.  My father had a good life, but it was certainly of a shorter duration than I thought it would be.  Most of our family lives into their 90s or at least mid eighties.  My dad was just 78.  I may be able to recognize his earlier passing as a blessing given what was coming, but that still doesn't mean that I was ready to say goodbye.  I suppose it is best to try to enjoy the absurdity and treasure what times we do have with each other.