**This is not going to be well written...just rambling about stuff as it comes to mind.**

On Sunday, December 1, 2013 at approximately 9:30 a.m. my father departed this life. I knew that this was where it was headed, but I don't think one can ever be fully prepared for the loss of someone they love. He was in Hospice at St. Vincent's Hospital at the time of his death. After much discussion with doctors and family we felt this was the best option for him. He had no chance of a recovery, short of a miraculous intervention. On the night before his death the family had been notified that if they wanted to see him they should come then. And many of them did come. They stood around his bedside declaring their love for him. They reminisced about their lives with him, laughing at times, crying at other times. I was there, but stood back and allowed them their time. I had been with my Dad every week since his wife passed in June of 2010. He had Alzheimer's. I went to all of his doctor appointments. I spent time with him at his home. I made sure he knew I loved him long before this night came. I can recall one day when I was over at his house and getting him to go take a nap, I told him I loved him. He looked up to me, patted my hand and said, "I know you do. I'm glad you're here." One would have to know the details of my life and his to know how significant that moment was.

On the day of Daddy's funeral my Aunt Annette said a few words about him. But so much was left unsaid. I mean, how do you tell a person's life in just a few short words? So many thoughts and feelings flood through my brain. "I should have said this" pops into my head over and over. So let me just say a few words about Joseph M. Jackson. They will in no way express the totality of who he was, but they are just a few thoughts.

Joe Jackson was a man I loved and admired. I wanted nothing from him except his love and approval. Everything I did revolved around that. As children, my sister and I would often say we were going to marry him or my Uncle Mickey. Both of them were handsome, strong men. Daddy was a man of few words, but when he spoke, you listened. He didn't have to raise his voice to get you to do something. He had an authority about him that demanded you listen and then act. Daddy loved to sing and play guitar. I recall him singing, "Little Red Wagon, King of the Road, Smoke that Cigarette" and other songs. He dreamed of being in a band. Oh, he said he tried when he was younger, but it didn't work out. Even though he didn't see me often, he loved that I sang. I think in some ways the reason I loved music and singing so much was because when I did sing that focused his attention on me. Daddy was an intelligent man. He was a leader among men. Some called him supervisor, boss, manager, whatever....but it all boils down to his ability to lead people.

We had horses when I was young and he would ride with his friend to the Bit and Spur and they'd barrel race. He loved horses. When we had to get rid of the horses, he got a red Mustang (car). I think that's kind of ironic.
I can remember him and his friend pretending to have a shootout in our front yard. Horses and guns go together, you know. Guess in some ways he wanted to be a cowboy.  Daddy could be redneck when the situation called for it, but having served in the Marines, I think some of that was tempered. He had an odd sense of humor. Maybe that's where I get mine from. I can remember going to Ocala with him, his wife, her kids, and me, my brother and sister. My step mother had tried to make me eat oatmeal and I refused. So I was sent to the bedroom for punishment. They went off, and me being the rebel child decided to go outside anyway. Some punks from the area came around taunting us. They threw a bottle and it hit my thumb and cut it. When my dad returned the stepsisters ran out telling him I had been cut by a bottle they threw at me. Well, that angered my dad and he took off down the road to hunt them down. He called the Sheriff to come to the house. Well, daddy comes back to the cabin and asks to see my thumb (before the Sheriff had arrived). When I showed him (it was a very small cut) he looked at me and said, "You know what I'm going to have to do, don't you?" I said, "No sir." With a most serious expression on his face he responded, "I'm going to have to cut your thumb." I stood there for what seemed an eternity and then said, "Okay." He started laughing so hard and then grabbed me and hugged me and told me he would never do that. He was just kidding. My dad worked at the Florida Times Union for a while and I can remember him taking me to work with him. My step sister went along. We went into the restroom (which was for men and women) and she thought the men's urinal was a sink and washed her hands in it. Well, as soon as we got out to my dad I had to tell everyone that she washed her hands in the toilet. Daddy scolded me as he snickered about it. We both knew that he thought that was funny. He had many funny little sayings too.

Daddy was man who could do a lot of things well. If he didn't know how to do something he'd learn it. He built my mama's house, and later he built a house for him and his new wife. He was very handy with machinery. He worked designing tools. He later worked doing maintenance at Flowers Bakery (he retired from there). He loved to keep his yard neat and at one point had a lawn service.

Looking back over my life, I have very few memories of him in comparison to other people. But I cherish those that I do have. And I am glad that I had the opportunity to be with him for the last 3 years of his life. There is nothing more humbling than having to serve someone who didn't always do right by you. But in those times spent caring for him, I developed a deep compassion for him. I hated watching this terrible disease destroy the man he had been. I hatred that he was suffering. If anyone thought the decision to put him in hospice was the wrong one, it doesn't matter. I know in my heart that I did the right thing by signing those papers.

That day before they moved Daddy to hospice, me and my sister stood by his bedside and sang "Go Rest High" and "Suppertime." I knew we would use those songs at his funeral, but we wanted him to hear them. And we wanted him to know that we were okay if he was ready to go on home. His time on earth was over and he had our permission to leave. On the day of his departure, me, my brother and sister were the last 3 to see him alive, which is as it should be. I think God arranged that. My brother had to leave, and things grew quiet in the room. I've often heard that people wait until they think they're alone to die. And I think Daddy thought he was alone. I wasn't looking at him and there was no significant change to alert me to look at him, but all of a sudden I had an odd feeling come over me (one I can't explain) and I bolted out of my chair and placed my hand on his chest. He was still warm, but there was no breath. I don't know what other people believe, but I think his spirit leaving his body brushed past me and I sensed it. There's no other explanation...I told my sister, the last two people he laid eyes on were me and her as he looked down. The last 4 people to see him alive were Jacksons. I know people don't understand why that is so significant, but it truly is. It really is God's gift to my family. And for that I'm grateful.