The writer Christopher Buckley and I have Dads with the same name: William Buckley.
That’s why I have always figured we were related. Not in the technical sense—like family blood or marriage ties—but in a parallel lives kind of way. He’s a funny writer. I try to be a funny writer. His Dad was ultra-conservative. Ditto my Dad. His Dad founded the National Review. My Dad renews my subscription to it every year. During the last presidential election, Chris wrote: “Sorry, Dad, I’m voting for Obama.” I wrote the same line to my Dad.
When my Mom died, I was haunted by the fact that “I’m next.” In an interview with AARP Magazine Chris said:
“When your parents die, you move closer to the river Styx, so my original title for the book was You’re Next. Then I realized it’s kind of frightening.”
He was raised Catholic. I was, too—part way. He wrote the book Thank You For Smoking, a satire on the tobacco industry. I loved the book. Chris turned down the White House’s invitation to have Dick Cheney speak at his father’s funeral. I would certainly have done the same. There are more ties to my distant not-really relative. But you get the picture.
The reason I’m thinking about Christopher Buckley is because EVERY Sunday for the last few months my Dad tells me how many more days it is to his birthday—which he claims will be his last one on Earth. (Recent count: 42 days)
I don’t like to hear this. Originally he planned to live until November 2012 when he could vote to throw Obama out of office. We were going together to the polls (even though I can’t vote in Orange County) in a kind of “Let’s Get America Back on Track” solidarity. It was something for him to look forward to.
Now my Dad says no-can-do on 2012. Which is why I need to start thinking about the inevitable and making plans. My sister was in charge of my Mom after she died. I’m in charge of my Dad. Luckily my Dad asked me to sign him up with Science Care, a company in Arizona that performs research on dead bodies. They will come fetch any dead body, do their thing, then cremate it and send you the ashes. My Dad likes this part best: it’s free.
So I have the identification card in my wallet. And when the time comes, I’ll make the call.
But I’m ddrreeeaaading the thought.
Quite frankly, this would be a really BAD time for my Dad to kick the bucket. Besides being REALLY BUSY (Geez, the nerve to impose upon me right now!) I do not handle death well. I don’t like grieving. It never goes away. Total bummer.
So, while William F. Buckley received a huge splashy funeral service at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City (with Henry Kissinger giving a eulogy no less!), William L. Buckley will receive a plane ride to Arizona.
Lastly, Chris wrote about his parent’s death in the book, Losing Mum & Pup. It’s lovely in its sentiment. It’s my carry-around book right now—the book I keep in my purse and read portions from while I’m standing in line at the post office or bank, stuck in traffic, waiting for a meeting to begin, etc. It’s my kind of book—small and short—AND well written.
Likewise in remembrance, my Mom and Dad also get the written treatment—BLOGS from www.fuchsiawoman.com. And like Chris, I have good sentiments, too.
