Last night I dreamed I went to a men's clothing store and asked the gentleman working there if he would help me find a shirt and pair of slacks for my father.
"Really nice ones," I told him.
I know why I dreamed this, of course. Right before going to bed last night, I read that Mr. Mac had died.
The Coach and Mac enjoyed a long, long friendship. I cannot even begin to tell you how many suits the men in my life had because of Mac. And watching him and my father have at it in Mac's store--freewheeling all the way--was a joy to watch. Originally from San Pete county, Mac once told the Coach the place he felt most at home was in New York City's garment district.
I'd known that Mac was ill and I felt prompted more than once to write him a letter, expressing the affection our family felt for him. After all, he loaned me and Ken Cannon the use of his St. George condo for our honeymoon all those years ago.
But I never did write him.
I told Ken Cannon this morning how much I regret not acting on my impulse to reach out.
"He knew how you felt," Ken Cannon said.
And yes. I think he did.
RIP, Mac. Say hey to my father and give him a bad time, okay?
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