This one, is true.
My father passed away in August of 1999, after a lengthy hospital stay. He had been in since April.
I lived with Mom and Pop, at the home I grew up in. As they grew infirm in their age, I tried to take care of them as best I could, while working 2 regular jobs and whatever side work came along as a musician. One gig was at a local Indian Reservation, where I would run sound twice a year (May and October) for their juried native arts show and competition. It was a large job, which required me to set up gear the day before the event started. I had taken the gear up, the day before and come home that evening. The next morning, I decided to take my car, as it was more comfortable that the 1979 ford F100 that had belonged to my father. MY car, an 1985 Cadillac, wouldn’t start. Dead. No reason. Irritated, I went to the truck. It also was dead. NOW, I was in trouble.
I called my friend, who was helping me on the job, hoping he had not left yet and could swing by and get me. No luck there. Already gone. I had no one to call to get a ride. The reservation was 50 miles one way. Taking a cab was out of the question. I looked out in the driveway. My father’s car still sat, undisturbed, where it had been for many months. I knew for a fact, it hadn’t been run or started, in nearly a year. As Pop sickened, I drove him where he needed to go, in MY vehicle. His was a 1974 Oldsmobile Delta 88. A brown, 4 door, no frills, family vehicle. It had not yet broken 45,000 miles. Pop was proud of his Olds.
I went inside and asked my Mom, where she thought his car keys might be. She sat there for a moment, before telling me they were probably still in his pants pocket. We had yet to clean out his things from their bedroom. Neither one of us could yet bear to do it. So, I went rooting through his clothes. I found the keys in the last pair of pants he wore, the day I drove him to the emergency room.
Rushing back outside, I unlocked the Olds and climbed in. The interior still smelled like him; the sweat of a working man, and cigar smoke. I put the key in the ignition and said
“Oh please, Pop. Please start.”
When I turned the key in the ignition, that Rocket 350 motor roared to life on the 1st try. I opened the glove box and dug around for the insurance card. When I looked at it, I couldn’t help but burst into tears; there were 3 days left on my dead father’s car insurance. The exact amount of time I needed to do this job. I went back inside and sat on the couch, next to my Mom, still crying and showed her the card. She could see and hear the Olds running, as it was parked right outside the living room window. Mom smiled as she read the insurance card.
“Well, he’s still trying to help you as best he can.”
I drove Pop’s car for the next three days, without a problem.
Paranormal? Maybe not. But I like to think so. Thanks Pop. I love and miss you both.
