Old Man Love.

He was up at 6:30 CST Saturday morning. Within minutes
(it could've been hours, actually; I was half-asleep), he was
showered, dressed and ready to go.

"Why are you still asleep?! We went to bed at 10!" His slightly-
raised voice and annoying smile were prime indicators that
this didn't know that I'm not a morning person--especially
at such a nasty hour on a Saturday.

You'd think that my Dad would have figured that out after
twenty-eight years. (He is actually aware that I'm not at my
best in those wee-early hours. It's just more fun for him to
give me hell before I let the shower head hit me in the face
and have my one cup o'joe. What a bastard.) :)

After leaving the surprisingly-okay Motel 6 in Kentucky's
fourth-largest city of Owensboro, we set out in Dad's
twelve-year old pickup. This clunky domestic lost its air-
conditioning a couple of years ago. Because Dad refuses to
have it repaired, citing that he doesn't use it that much,
yesterday's drive was kinda hellacious: 97 degrees and
plenty of sunshine, with a 250-lbs. stone weighing down
the back.

Yes. You read correctly--we were hauling a tombstone.

Look in the dictionary and find the word 'genealogist'.
Dad's picture should be adjacent. Our family tree is so
thorough that we know the exact date when Dad's great-
great-grand-father took the first shit ever taken in central
Kentucky. Okay, that's stretching it a bit, but Dad has gone
through so much Spencer genealogy that he now spends
time researching off-branches of the tree--which led us to
Owensboro.

Without perpetuating an already long story, Dad was the
driving force behind an effort to erect a tombstone for a
long-deceased, barely-distant ancestor. He proposed the
idea to those more closely related to the woman, sought
funding, got a discount from his monument-maker friend,
drove the stone from Waddy to Owensboro and, with the
help of a couple others (including yours truly), installed it
during a nice, simple ceremony.

I stood before the newly-set tombstone in a country
cemetery at least five miles from the nearest gas station
and listened to suppositions of the characteristics of Nancy
Agnes Greer Harrison. And then I listened to praise--of my
Dad, from most of those assembled at the site, for his work
and dedication in preserving the dignity of those gone
before him.

True to form, Dad was both humble and slightly indignant
about the situation when he remarked, "It didn't matter if I
knew her or was distantly related or not--she needed a
headstone."

Dad is seventy. He was a proud Bush supporter (both of
them), sends checks to the Republican Party, thinks
that Rush Limbaugh is credible and doesn't support
marriage equality.

And I still think he hung the moon.