Endings

Play it Again, Sam is a consignment store in Corvallis for used exercise equipment. I gave up my sea-foam-green suede roller skates there last week. I’d bought them in April 2020 hoping my old skating habit would make the pandemic bearable. It worked for about a year. The last time I wore them, I was, as usual, pretending to be an Olympian: wrist protectors, helmet, hands loosely clasped behind my waist, hurtling forward at whatever speed it was (fast), gliding on the right leg, pushing off to the left. Up ahead, a man and his dog were walking. The dog was barking aggressively, upset by my approach. Distracted, I didn’t see the hose that had been draped across the road to count the rare car that passed on that straightaway. When I hit it, I went flying. Cracked the helmet, a couple of ribs, and went home with a concussion. Giving the skates away removed the temptation to put them on again.

I’m thinking about endings is what I’m saying.

Some time Thursday morning, my father took the fall that in many ways was inevitable. He was 96. When my mom died a year ago, he decided to stay in the house they’d lived in for 65 years, where the six of us grew up. There’s a lot of love and stories built into that house.

Da (I called him Da, or Dabu) died late Friday night. When I was talking to him by phone last summer, I asked if there was anything I could do for him. He said, the best thing you can do for me is to live your life. That answer tells you a lot about him. He wanted me to go wherever my life might take me, to live the life I’ve created for myself. He would have answered the same way to anyone who asked.

Bon Voyage, Dabu. I’ll miss you.

Buck Scott on his 96th birthday in 2025. To life!