A last Scotch

We’ve been on the road this week. We drove up to northern California on Sunday so we could visit my aunt who just lost her husband Harry (he died, she didn’t misplace him). Then we headed off to San Jose to spend late Monday and Tuesday working. On Wednesday we drove down to San Jose to pick up Harry’s “cremains” at the mortuary and deliver them to my aunt. This was a learning experience for me. First: they’re called “cremains.” Who knew? Second: you need a permit to have human ashes. Again, who knew?

Harry was a man of few words and fewer complaints, a World War II vet who only toward the end of his life ever shared the details of his life altering battle experiences in New Guinea. He was a simple man of simple pleasures, but one of those pleasures was the occasional glass of  Scotch. In the last two years of his life he was in a convalescent home and let’s just say there was no bar there so he never had a chance to enjoy one last drink. So when he passed, Chuck and I thought it would be a fitting tribute to a good guy to order him one last Scotch. We did this last night, in Paso Robles. We ordered the Scotch, toasted Harry, and then left it at an empty place at our table.

Here’s to you, Harry. You’ll be missed.