My dad used to say, “While you’re up,” to my mom every chance he got.
It is the most palpable memory I have of the two of them when he was alive because it was the most telling, and ultimately, the most romantic.
My mom would laugh when he’d say it. From whatever age you start remembering things right on through the week he died, they did this verbal dance of wit and humor. Dad, from the well-earned comfort of his chair, would ask my mother at the sight of the slightest ankle-jerk if she could please get him, “While you’re up,” a blah-blah-blah (insert bag of pretzels, string cheese, sliced apples, a napkin, & a bottle of Evian. I’m remembering the later years, here. Shit, my dad’s request list reads like a yuppie nightmare. In his heart he was asking for a dry martini, straight up, a good cigar, preferably one rolled tight-as-hell illegally, and some Hank Williams.)
Jeezus. What was my point?
Ok, i’ll never catch my breath on this one. That’s the never-ending breathless feeling you get when a parent dies. Sometimes, there’s just not enough air.
But this is what’s what. My father tortured my mother with the “While you’re up” line for decades, beautifully, and the only reason he isn’t doing the same right now is because he died.
"While you’re up" was their love song. For twenty-seven years.
“I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies. If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all property – until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.”