I Prefer Black Schtick


My dad died eight years ago today.  He had a heart attack, hung out in his brain dead body for a week, then was transferred back to his place so that he could die at home.  

At 6:55pm, my brother said, "That's weird, there's a hawk just walking around on the ground outside.  I've never seen them do that before."  I looked over, and it was a few feet away, pacing outside the patio doors.  Then it stopped and looked at us.  

Behind me, I heard my dad's partner Dawn yell "No! No! NO!"  I turned my head, and saw brown stuff coming out of his mouth.  That was the first time I saw that amazing phenomenon of death, where my own father transformed into a stranger before my eyes.

Later, I asked a Native American about the hawk, and she said, "Yep, messenger of the soul."  My dad was Cherokee.

Despite my dad having an IQ of 148 and piles of certifications and degrees, he still said "warsh" instead of "wash".  That drove me nuts.  Also, he would spend thousands of dollars on clothes, but always wear the same outfit:  light blue Levi's jeans, sneakers, a white turtleneck, and a sweatshirt.  (I bet he had to warsh it every day.)

His schtick annoyed me to no end, but when he wasn't randomly putting boxes on my head or making up bread puns, he had a quick wit.

Like, once this guy referred to a movie my dad liked as a "chick flick".  My dad fired back, "Well, I like it, so that makes it a dick flick!"

Aw papa.  Mwah!  I miss our dinner conversations where the two of us would bounce a dialogue back and forth for hours, while everyone else sat around silent and bored.  

Later that day, we drank cocoa, and watched a Disney dick flick.