Yesterday DF’s father died. I am so, so glad that it happened after DF’s recent trip down south to take care of business. Now his father’s widow, who’s 95, won’t have to stress out over death-related details or to face her late husband’s very disorganized papers.

No, DF did that for her – with complete transparency – because she was too busy coping with the impending loss. I’m glad he did that. I’m gladder still that he was able to say some things that needed saying, while his father was still able to hear and to respond.

Please, please do the same – before you miss your chance. If something needs saying, then say it.

Their relationship was not ideal, but DF made a conscious choice to put aside rancor and say, “I love you unconditionally.” As in, no conditions attached to his statement:

• No recriminations.
• No asking “why?”
• No demand for closure.

That last is counter to pop-psychology tenets, but not everyone needs or wants it. A therapist I know once said, “Closure is overrated.” I think I know what she meant: Those openness-and-healing talks aren’t necessarily a panacea.

I picked DF up at the airport last night. He’d spent nearly a week in the Lower 48 dealing with his father’s end-of-life issues. Hospice is now involved and his dad is being made comfortable. He feels extreme weakness but no pain and is receiving oxygen as needed.

DF spent most waking hours slogging through reams of paperwork and bushels of belongings. Bank, insurance and health records were every which way. The power of attorney (written some years back) turned out to be problematic so DF had to get it rewritten, re-signed and re-notarized.

One agency wanted to know the names of all doctors his father had seen in the past two years, and guess what? Nobody knew. Heck, there wasn’t even a record of the defibrillator he’d had implanted.

Quick question: Would you spend almost three-fourths of your annual income on one party?

Yeah, me neither. But some people will spend that much – or more – on their nuptials.While researching a wedding article for MSN Money Frugal Nation, I learned that:

• The average wedding cost $28,427.
• The average income for a U.S. resident is $39,959.

Do the math.

Incidentally, that average wedding price does not include the cost of a honeymoon.

Earlier today a guy knocked on the Phoenix home where my daughter and son-in-law live. He said he’d just lost his job and would be willing to do their yard for $10.

Scam, right?

Wrong. He did the work. Before getting paid for it. And no doubt he was surprised by what happened next.

“We gave him $20 because, uh, we prefer not to go to hell” is the way my daughter described it.

Apparently some of their immediate neighbors have no fear of everlasting immolation, though, because they took the guy up on his $10 offer. Which brings me to the point of this mercifully short screed:

I’m sitting near a blazing fire watching Chamber of Commerce snow fall. The flakes are fat and fluffy and seem to dance on their way down, the way the bits of white inside a snow globe frolic back and forth before settling.

The house is perfumed by the corned beef simmering in a Dutch oven and by a batch of kale and sausage soup (heavy on the potatoes, moderate on the garlic and with a judicious amount of Frank’s Red Hot pepper sauce). If I concentrated, I could probably scent the last of the homemade yogurt that I drained through a cloth-lined colander a little while ago.

But the dominant fragrance is of freshly washed laundry hung on racks set up between me and the fireplace insert, which is cranking out so much heat that the clothes and towels may be dry before I finish writing this.

Domestic contentment – made even more delightful by the fact that it is shared domesticity. When DF got home from church (he’s the cantor for 8 a.m. Mass) he dove right into chores: two loads of laundry, putting the corned beef on to cook, cleaning the tub, general tidying. I can track his progress by the whistling or occasional scraps of song he emits while moving from job to job.

Where was I? Cutting up soup ingredients, placing some vegetable scraps into the freezer for making stock later on and relegating others to the compost, putting the yogurt into a container and storing the whey in a jar. Oh, and smiling. Smiling.

I love a man who whistles while he works. And I especially love a man who doesn’t regard the domestic arena as expressly female.