I hate the phrase “new normal” but that is what my mother and I are adjusting to after the death of my father last week.  

A lot goes through your mind in the days after the passing of someone you love.  

As I have mentioned before I wish I had been closer to my father in terms of shared interests.  

My father was a simple and humble man but was known throughout the county. Many of you dropped by the visitation and a great number attended the funeral on a cold Saturday morning. Some of you did both.

Darryl Lewis, Lance Bennett, Ed Boggess and my daughter Sarah Margaret shared their experiences with my father.  

He was always willing to spend time talking with people, and though he never said anything to me through the years, I realized he was proud of my accomplishments talking to others about what I had done.  

That meant a lot to me.  

I wish I could have climbed the economic ladder the way my father did.  

He started working at the Princess Theater, now the Capri, at the age of nine. From that point on he purchased every item of clothing he wore and most of the food he ate.  

He was poor and many of his classmates through the years never let him forget it. They made fun of him because he had to go to work at such a young age. They would drive by or walk by the theater and jeer at him.  

No wonder he never attended a reunion of his high school class.  

His working life was spent mostly as an insurance agent. He was required to collect at homes on a weekly or monthly basis. Not only did he collect, but he also made friends of most everyone who had purchased a policy from him. He was a successful insurance agent, one of the best in his company.  

He never called attention to himself and even the higher ups in the company realized and respected his unwillingness to boast.  

In December, he and my mother would have been married 70 years. That is a feat almost unheard of this day and time.  

He was buried in the suit he wore the day he married my mother. Like their marriage, despite the years, it was in great shape.  

He would have also been 90 in December.  

Ironically, he was buried on Nov. 12, which was the day his older brother Grady died last year.  

His only request was that his last trip on earth be in the back of the ragtag black-and-white 1974 Chevrolet truck that was his calling card. I am sure many people pulled to the side of the road on Highway 231 wondered what was going on as we made our way to Fosterville Cemetery.  

As my father said many times in recent months, “he had a good life”. I know he is having a great eternity as well.