I have often talked about my Saturday morning and afternoon adventures with Don Shepley. How he’d wake me with British Military Bands at the crack of dawn and drag me around Chicagoland in the Dadillac.
My dad would sit at a breakfast table and tell the waitress “burn, burn and burn.” Meaning; burn the hash browns, burn the corn beef, burn the rye toast and eggs over easy.
Sitting across from my dad I learned a lot about life. He loved a greasy spoon for breakfast and an old school joint for lunch. We rarely went out for dinner on a Saturday night because he’d have to be home to watch “The McLaughlin Group” on channel 11 every week.
I learned how to inspect railroad cars. I learned every Chicago neighborhood. I learned the grid system. I learned where the good bakeries, news paper stands and hot dog joints were hidden and I learned how to treat people kindly.
Two years ago today my dad grabbed the keys to the Dadillac and drove to heaven. He left without me… no Grenadier Guard playing “Rule Britannia” cranked loud on the stereo. No “Get up Moose! We have things to do, places to go, people to meet!”
I don’t deal with the grief. Because my dad didn’t leave any. I might not be able to drive up to Lincoln Square for a bratwurst or Maxwell Street for a Polish with him… all I need to do is pray and he shows up. That’s how I deal with grief. I pray to my dad…
The last thing he said to me with his dying breath was, “you magnificent son of a bitch.”
Today I will raise a pint and do a shot of Tullamore D.E.W. in the memory of Donald Joseph Aloysius Shepley. The man who slapped many bricks into my foundation.
