Pants

It wasn't until I had packed up all the things I could fit into the car and watched my Dad's vintage motorcycles go down the driveway with their new owners that I was hit with a wave of sadness.  I walked back through his house, turning off lights, turning off the air conditioning, cataloging in my mind what I was going to take with me on the next trip.  I walked past my Dad's bedroom and I don't know why I didn't notice it before - maybe I did, I just was being oblivious (Or laser-focused on the task I had set for myself?), but there hanging on my Dad's bedpost were a pair of his pants.   They were hanging there, right where he had probably taken them off before his last trip down to our home, waiting for him to come back and put them back on.  His belt, fed through the loops, slightly used handkerchief in the pocket.  A tote full of stuff that I am still debating on whether or not I want to keep or pitch still on the floor next to his favorite pair of boots.  

I took a deep breath in. I walked out of the house, locked the door behind me and climbed into the car.  Even though I knew that I would be going back to Kentucky and that I will always be a part of that community, that his friends will always welcome me with open arms... Everything felt so final. 

I spent the week going through totes of pictures, papers and books.  I met with various contractors, people interested in buying various vehicles, tools, furniture.  My main priority was that things that were being sold would go to people who really wanted them, not people wanting to make a deal or anything like that.  His vintage motorcycles went to the president of the motorcycle club in Louisville. His trains went to the Evansville model train club.  The airstream camper went to someone who had been eyeing it and attempting to buy it for quite a while and was looking forward to going camping with his own kids.  While the tractors haven't been picked up yet, I already have a home for them as well.  

I have been hoping to find a letter or instructions.  Something telling me what to do with everything.  Whenever I asked my Dad any kind of questions he would always say "Oh, Jessie.  You don't have to worry about that."  After going through three different safety deposit boxes and countless piles of paper and pictures, I have found nothing to that effect.  I did, however, find cards and letters that I wrote my Dad, drawings, letters from my Dad's friends, fulfilled order slips and thank yous from people who bought his various books, awards, recognitions and mementos from so many organizations.  There was a box of cassette tapes and CDs with interviews from various people and lectures that he gave.  I donated piles of pictures dealing with Hopkins County to the Historical Society (an organization that my Dad helped found) along with the typewriter he wrote all of his books on.  

I was reminded at every turn how cool my Dad was. He led an interesting life and when he died, he wasn't done living.   My Dad and I joked about breaking him out of the hospital and going to Disney.  Realistically, I knew that we wouldn't go.  I had known for a long time that we wouldn't have the crazy adventures that we wanted to have.  I knew he wouldn't be able to get on a plane and travel to the Ukraine to see one of his friends - the plan was to get on a plane to Moldova and take a bus 8 hours, eventually crossing the border.  It didn't matter that there was and still is a war going on and he had congestive heart failure among other issues, he wanted to go see his friend again.  It tickles me how similar we were as far as our grand travel schemes.  I am going to try and keep that up going forward.  

I have some very large pants to fill, though.