It’s hard to know what to believe. His stories were incredibly fluid over the years, shifting and changing. Just imagine – a regular poker game in a back room of a funeral parlour, in the room where they stored the coffins. Chairs gathered around a closed coffin, cards dealt on the lid. How could that be true? I never thought to ask the detail questions. Where were the drinks and the chip bowls and the ashtrays? After all, coffins are long and narrow. Did they have side tables? Maybe the game was in that back room but maybe they had a regular card table set up.  I remember one time he was telling the story and he confessed to taking a break for a wee nap in a coffin. He was pulling my leg, right?

I remember The Undertaker. He used to come in the window shop just to say hi. Dad would always say, put away that measuring tape, it’s not my time!

A couple two three years ago I was back in the neighbourhood and I ran into this likable old guy who said, hey are you by any chance Joe’s son? And I said yeah, yeah I am. And he asked a few questions and I asked a few questions back and he started talking a little about the old days. I asked about that poker game, the one in the back of the funeral parlour. And he said, oh yeah, I remember that game, and he started listing off the players. They’re all gone now, every one of them.