To say that someone died lucky is, I suppose, an arrogance only the living can afford, yet my father lived 84 years. Eight years more than the predicted male life span but a million years less than I wished for him. He lived through the stock market crash, the Great Depression, world wars, racial eruptions, social revolution, a less than perfect career, and a stormy marriage. He was blessed with a loving wife, four children, and a several grandchildren who loved him beyond description. It is a terrible thing to watch someone so beloved collapse and drift toward certain death.
Nothing makes it acceptable and nothing makes it easier.
He was my father and I loved him as much as one person can love another. He was born with a zest for life and a powerful will to live each day to the fullest. He grew old gracefully and he died gracefully. My father's ashes were laid to rest on a Saturday morning in lovely old cemetery in Northwood, Iowa. His was a private farewell attended only by family members and a few close friends.