PODCAST-IF I EVER DIE

PODCAST-IF I EVER DIE My father often started his sentences with the phrase, “If I ever die…”             I never corrected him. I didn’t say, “Don’t you mean, when you die? You understand that dying is inevitable, right?” Instead, I wondered how he thought his life might play out. Did he believe he’d be carried off to heaven in a fiery chariot like Elijah in the Bible? Probably not. My father’s pronouncement didn’t seem to be influenced by any theological theories. The man simply disregarded his mortality, which resulted in his making risky choices, choices that evidenced questionable judgment. A man of irrational optimism and mesmerizing confidence, my father possessed great skills of persuasion. In his eighties, he convinced seven fellow octogenarians to help him detach then carry a wrought iron porch from our home to the back of our one-acre lot. He wanted to create a clubhouse for his horseshoe buddies. So, during a raging thunderstorm, as lightning crisscrossed the sky, these old guys with shoulder, knee, and heart problems, staggered down the yard with the intact porch. All I could think about was how many ambulances we’d need to call and the lawsuits the stunt would engender.             Another time, my father visited me in Virginia the week before he was scheduled for cardiac bypass surgery. Our neighbor invited us to go to a horse stable to pick up manure for her garden. We were to follow her truck, then help her shovel. She wanted the freshest manure, so she steered into a steaming mountain of droppings. Her pick-up sank several inches. As she spun her wheels, horse poo splattered in all directions. Despite my protests, Dad stepped into the equine doody, leaned his shoulder against the two-ton truck and pushed hard, to no avail. Fearing my father’s heart would fail, I flagged down a farmer who used a tractor to haul the pick-up out of the pit.             When my father was ninety-one, I flew to Florida for a visit. I hadn’t been a passenger in his car for a while. As he drove down a highway in Ocala, Dad looked at an overhead sign. “What do you think that says?” The tone of his query indicated that he believed there could be more than one correct answer.             I gasped. The letters were about the same size as that HOLLYWOOD sign in California. I told my father he needed to give up driving. After three attempts, my mom finally hid the keys in a place my father couldn’t find. So, my dad used his golf cart to get around, a cart with faulty brakes and a broken headlight. After a couple mishaps, my mother hid those keys. One night, my father hot wired the cart, then headed for a neighborhood pinochle game. Soon after, my cousins made the golf cart disappear.             At ninety-two, my father’s health declined rapidly. He asked to come to Virginia, where I live. He felt too ill to fly. So, my intrepid cousins decided to drive my parents to Charlottesville. We wondered if we might find ourselves in a Little Miss Sunshine situation—the movie where on a family road trip, the feisty grandpa quietly passes to the Great Beyond in the back seat of a van. We discussed what to do if my dad died on the way. We all agreed—they’d just keep driving. Sick as he was, right before they left, my father tried to convince my cousins to bring him to one last neighborhood pinochle game.             Upon arrival in Charlottesville, my father entered hospice care and passed away two weeks later. Even though, he’d been ill for months and I watched him become weak and disoriented, I felt shocked when he died. He had spent his life taking risks and beating the odds.  At a subconscious level, I’d bought into his, “IF I ever die…” perspective. To this day, I still expect a phone call from him, telling me about his latest ridiculous exploit. I do feel relieved that I no longer have to worry about him endangering himself or some innocent bystander. But the truth is, I miss him. That wild man brought life to every party.             Not long ago, when discussing the future with a friend, I inadvertently said, “IF I ever die…”  She looked surprised. I’ll admit, I’d surprised myself.             Why did I say that? Clearly, I am aware that I will die someday.             Perhaps, six years after my father’s death, I am finally realizing the unspoken sentiment underlying that phrase he often used. Regardless how his body failed him, the man intended to pursue joy right to the end. These days, our nation feels as if it’s on fire. And, come January, our country will re-visit the chaos created by our past and future president.  I’ll admit, after the election, my inclination was to retreat to a cozy bunker for four years.  But, why waste this precious life?  Despite my despondency being deep and wide, I hope to channel my father and Dylan Thomas by raging against the dying of the light. (Above photo is of my father, Jimmy Mazzotta, in his Model T car.) 0:00 / 0:00 If I Ever Die (Photo by Jen Fariello)Deborah Prum’s fiction has appeared in The Virginia Quarterly Review, Across the Margin, Streetlight and other outlets. Her essays air on NPR member stations and have appeared in The Washington Post, Ladies Home Journal and Southern Living, as well as many other places. Check out her WEBSITE. Check out her DEVELOPMENTAL EDITING SERVICES. Check out her PAINTINGS.  APPLE PODCAST SPOTIFY PODCAST