My father is quite extraordinary.  He lives by himself at near-91 years-old. 

He goes to his sculpture studio, he goes to synagogue, he goes to art classes, and he comes for dinner on Sunday night and sometimes even takes in a museum or movie on a Saturday.  (As long as I can remember, Dad lasts about 20 minutes in a museum.  Same with movies, unless it is a documentary about death and destruction (financial or otherwise).)

He just needs help with the details sometimes.  Wrapping up Mom’s estate is a little too much for him.   With everything automated and on the internet, he is a little behind with his paper and pen ledgers.  And the paper can pile up.

It is a quirky kind of focus issue.  And if his credit card bill is three cents off, he will catch it faster than someone one-quarter his age.   And he doesn’t have OMT (old man tipping) Disease.  He is a solid 20% man.  (I think it goes back to his parents’ having been day laborers.  In our house, “never hold a day laborer’s wage until the morning” was as important as any commandment, including the Big Ten.)

So, I think it is more for his comfort and peace of mind that I’m taking a more active role in his affairs.  I am honored that my father trusts me, as he does all of his children.  I am just the lawyer who lives close by.

I didn’t think about it too much, until yesterday, when we started signing paper work to formalize the arrangement and my eyes started to well up.  I excused myself to get composed and as I was walking back in, I heard Dad telling our lawyer, “All my children are fabulous.  I am the luckiset guy in the world.”  I had to walk out again for another second because those damn tears started coming.  

I am good with this new responsibility, just as long as it doesn’t give Dad license to drift away. . . .