Still thinking about three years ago today. That would be Saturday, Feb. 3, 2001. Shannon was in China and I was left here to deal with my dad's funeral.



I got up early that day and drove to the Balls' to pick up Eric. When we got home, I broke the news to him. He was crushed. He sobbed uncontrollably for what seemed an eternity. I tried to reason with him, to help him understand that Grandpa was with his mom and dad now, that he wasn't in pain any more. I bore my testimony to him that I knew with ever fiber of my existence that we will see my dad again when we are all resurrected. But he was 10 and missed his grandpa.



Eric still doesn't deal with death very well. His reaction is the same no matter who the deceased is; he reacts the same way if it's his grandpa, our next-door neighbor Mr. McMakin, KC the Dog, his hamster, or his fish. He's such a sensitive kid. He has always cared more about others' feeling than his own--at least he did until he turned 13. Hormones having a way of taking a perfectly good kid and turning him into a freak--aka a teenager! But I always try to remember that hormones can't touch his heart and his spirit. I know my son's heart, and it's a good one.



Anyway, back to the day after my dad died......I asked Eric if he wanted to come to Prosser with me. I told him I needed to go with Grandma, Aunt Sue, and Uncle Tom to the funeral home to meet with the mortician and plan the funeral. If he went, he could stay at Tom's with Kathy and the kids. He said he didn't want to go, choosing to go to Shannon's parents instead.



We drove the few blocks to the Goodeys'. When we got there, I told them the news. Eric cried again and Helen did her best to comfort him. Watching him in her arms, it struck me that if ever a little boy needed his mom, this one did. But his mom was half a world away doing something that only she could do--bring our daughter home. After Eric calmed down we had a short visit--I'm sure Helen made us breakfast--I gave Eric a hug and prepared to head to Prosser.



I swung by the house to pick some things up and remembered that I was supposed to work the basketball game at Ki-Be that night also. I called my principal, Mark Muxen, to tell him what had happened and to let him know that I was taking the whole week off. Although Mark was never a very warm guy at school, he told me how sorry he was for my loss and said he'd take care of arranging my sub for the week and find someone to keep score for the game that night. With that, I was off to plan my dad's funeral.



It has always struck me as odd (and Tom and I have talked about this many times since then) that of my Mom and Dad's seven children, the youngest (Tom and me) had the lion's share of the responsibility in taking care of the funeral arrangements. I guess geography played a major role in that. Russ was in Cheney, and, as I remember, fresh out of jail or court-ordered rehab or something. Sue, who lived with Mom and Dad, was an emotional wreck. Dan was in Port Angeles, Gary in Omaha, Nebraska, and Mary was in Seattle. Each of them (except Sue) was making their way home. Mary would arrive later that day, the others on either Sunday or Monday.



I met Mom and Sue at Tom's house. We hugged and cried and shared our love for one another. Our appointment at the funeral home wasn't for another hour or so, so Mom took a nap in the big recliner while Tom and Sue filled me in on the details of the previous night.