Nine Years.

Sunday marked the ninth anniversary of my father’s death, of kidney cancer, at the age of 59.

It was awful. It’s still awful, in a lot of ways. But my father was not one to dwell on the awful, so I will instead share a story that a neighbor re-told this past weekend.

Every summer, we’d escape the Florida heat and go to North Carolina for a week with some friends and neighbors. One year, on the Thursday before we departed, our neighbor called my dad to see how the preparations were coming along.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Frying bacon,” my father replied nonchalantly. “For the trip.”

The neighbor hung up the phone, said, “I gotta see this,” and walked over.

He found my parents frying bacon and nestling it between paper towels in a large Tupperware container. Apparently my father was concerned about transporting bacon across state lines (would it stay fresh?), and frying it on-site every morning (would it make the condo smell greasy?), and so he just decided to fry a bunch of it and have it ready to go. “He must have fried five pounds of bacon!” the neighbor recalled, laughing and shaking his head.

Some people prep for vacation by making lists or evaluating outfits. My father prepared for vacation by frying a boatload of bacon. Like it was nothing.

Yeah, it’s still awful. But I’m so glad that other people still cherish their David Booher stories. I know I do.

Here’s to the most festive man I ever knew:

(Some people wear pants. David Booher wore PANTS.)

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