I walked along Fort Myers Beach with Michelle and the children late Saturday afternoon at sunset. It was a trip I'd taken with and without a girlfriend, or kids, almost every other Sunday night in the four years I'd been divorced.

I had my cell phone in my pants pocket and stumbled for it as it rang. I missed the call, but caught the number with PA area code and called back. It was Franny, my dad's 85-year-old girlfriend, asking me to convince my dad to stay with her and be safe while my sister and her boyfriend were at the New Jersey casinos.

I spoke to him, telling him about the cool beach breeze and what the children had been doing and my ex, soon to remarry. The children each spoke to him also, shouting in the phone above the waves and seagulls and kids shouting. I spoke to him too, telling him I loved him and he should stay with Franny. Finally he ended the call first as he always did, saying, "All right Anthony, I'll let you go." We said our goodbyes and hung up.

I have to thank Franny, and the Lord Himself, for those few moments on that beach in what had been an ordinary Saturday afternoon. It would be the final time I'd speak with my dad, who passed away last night after two major heart attacks in an afternoon. He died two weeks short of Father's Day (as my mom died a week before Mother's Day, 15 years before.) He also died two months short of his 80th birthday, the final member of his family (parents, two brothers, one sister) to pass on.

I will miss Dad the rest of my life and owe so much to him for shaping who I am as a man and as a father. It all seems distant for me, missing him here in SW FL and looking at past pictures recent as this Thanksgiving. Michelle met him that magical weekend for the first time (and he told my sister, "She's good for him," nothing I didn't already know.) The children lost a grandfather and will miss our outings when I'd bring them to see him in August, taking care of stray cats drinking coffee, and smoking cigarettes on his back porch.

I can't begin to describe here how much he meant to me, especially the last 15 years of his life after my mother passed on. Franny and my sister Gerladine deserve and need my prayers, for they took care of him those years and saw he went where he needed to, was fed and kept comfortable in his home. My dad didn't die lonely, and they are to thank for that.

Tomorrow I fly to Philadelphia and begin the long, painful process of viewing and funeral and luncheon, plus estate and the dreaded red tape. The hardest part will be walking into our home, the one I spent half my life in, looking for him lying in his bedroom or coming out of the hallway, and not seeing him. May God bless my dad and everyone who loved him.

Thinking 'Bout New Orleans

Having some rare hours free on a Sunday afternoon, I caught a quick gym workout when I heard Ray Nagin had been re-elected mayor of New Orleans. The same Ray Nagin dressed as a would-be Willie Wonka on tee shirts throughout NOLA's French quarter, starring in "Nagin and the Chocolate City."
Absolutely amazing.

All this after my beloved and I returned two weeks ago from the second weekend of NO's Jazz and Heritage Festival, which this year was as much an act of defiance as celebration for the city's music and culture. The big names showed up: Keith Urban gave a rollicking set for what seemed to be a sea of teenagers and young adults, walking through the festival crowd as he sang "You'll Think of Me" and "Days Gone By." He closed the song by quoting with lines from Bruce Springsteen's "The Rising," continuing a theme the Boss himself established with his stunning Jazz Fest appearance the week before.

Jimmy Buffett, one of the most reliable concert attractions ever, graced the stage Saturday afternoon amidst reports of storms heading to New Orleans. The storms broke in two and went around the city, just as Jimmy said he was promised by two nuns he'd seen that morning in the Quarter. He then sang "City of New Orleans," partly to salute the city and for closure after performing the song during his legendary performance at Chicago's Wriglet Field. He worked from there through his classics, mixing New Orleans references in like Chef Paul's spice in songs like "I Will Work for Gumbo," "Come Monday," "Brown Eyed Girl," and a jamming version of Jerry Garcia's "Deal." And yes, the crowd yelled for salt during "Margaritaville," and finned to the left and to the right.

Paul Simon was the key national attraction for Sunday, with warm versions of early Simon & Garfunkel and solo hits ("Slip Slidin' Away," "Me and Julio," a rollicking "Cecilia." He also invited local heroes Irma Thomas, Allen Touissant, and Buckwheat Zydeco to play with him on "Bridge Over Troubled Water," and "Graceland." His fine set had even more impact when it was announced festival closer Fats Domino would not be able to play due to ill health.

The city's vibrant local music scene was also well represented. The Dirty Dozen Brass Band mixed classic New Orleans drumline with R&B and hip hop as they worked through "Feets Don't Fail Me Now," AWB's "Pick Up The Pieces," and the stalwart "When The Saints Go Marching In." Marcia Ball revved it up in the blues tent, delivering a powerhouse version of Randy Newman's "Louisiana 1927" surrounded by Jerry Lee Lewis-style boogie woogie piano. Only Little Feat's set fell flat, with the exception of Buffett helping out on "Dixie Chicken."

It seemed the town, still trying to rebuild, put its best face on for its visitors. People smiled when we biked by washed out neighborhoods asking how we were enjoying the Fest. The food was as delicious as ever, not only at tourist stalwarts like Emeril's and the Court of Two Sisters but along stands at the festival itself. All this even as the piles of trash and abandoned cars remind you again of the punishment New Orleans suffered (shocking even to someone like yours truly who endured Hurricane Charlie in 2004 and Wilma in 2005, with another hurricane season set to arrive in two weeks.

We made many friends, and shared music reviews with them as we met for morning coffee or an evening glass of wine. We heard a lot of great music, not only on the Jazz Fest stages but a superb gospel show Saturday night featuring the legendary Five Blind Boys of Alabama. We enjoyed delicious food (and even saw the celebrity chef, Emeril, bam it through.) And we biked everywhere we needed to go in between to burn it all off. In the end, Michelle and I now know what it means to miss New Orleans and are thinking about where to go next and how soon we can come back. She said it best: "They move when the music plays. They're my kind of people."