My dad was once the guy leading a platoon of riflemen (boys) up the rocky slope to take out a machine gun nest. He didn't quite die, a matter of an inch or so. As I grew up he led my brother and me on great outdoors adventures, horseback deer hunting far from any trail, a cross country hike to fish hidden streams, by the age of 12 I thought I could guide us across those untracked wild ridges as good as he could; he let me think that while keeping his own dead reckoning.

Sometime in his sixties he got fearful; I had to take the lead. He turned devout Christian and then feared death at every turn, though he believed that death led to a better place. Now he's 99, in a memory care unit and holding on with a death grip to what's left of his life. His wife should be waiting for him on the other side, I often have wondered why he wasn't anxious to reunite with her.

My mom resolved to die in her own home; she succeeded in her resolve at the age of 89.