My dad retired and moved to Northern Arkansas in the early eighties. He was diabetic and it was causing problems which gradually got worse in the next six or seven years. I was at his place in 84, I think, for the summer. He was playing music and enjoying himself, and had a nice life going on.

But his health was failing even then. He was having problems with his feet and particularly his eyesight was going. I was back in California with my new wife and kids in 1990, and I got a call from the VA hospital in Little Rock. I was at work and they had called my house and got my office number. I was there to answer, which was a rarity, I was usually out buying cars. The doctor on the other line confirmed that I was Billy Burnett’s son and then told me that my dad was in the hospital.

While he was telling me about my dad, I was thinking about how my dad had told me his “hoboing” days were over as we plotted his course to drive back to Arkansas from his visit with us just a few short months before. He couldn’t see well anymore when he drove his minivan across the country for a last visit. We were plotting routes on his maps and tracing them in heavy red pen. He wanted to drive on nothing but state two-lane highways, and we avoided all big populations when we could. He could see well enough to drive at night by the glow of the white lines on the roads and the less other cars he had to deal with the better it would be, so back roads it would be.

He made it home, but it took a long time. He called me when he got home to let me know he was good and made it, no hitches. I was happy for that, but I could hear in his voice he didn’t feel very well.

The doctor told me my dad had an injury on one of his feet. He explained it was serious, maybe even life-threatening, because the injury had been infected for a while. He mentioned that amputation might be a reality. He then told me that, “Your dad had a foreign object lodged in his foot and because he had little feeling in his foot, he probably didn’t realize it was injured until it was too late to treat it.”

I am who I am because of my dad. He had a very intelligent and sick sense of humor and because I learned from the best I asked the doctor, “A foreign object? You mean like a Toyota?”

There was a dearth of silence on the phone, it was almost deafening. I think his humor switch was off. He finally said, “I believe it was a staple, but I would advise you to make arrangements to come see him now.” He went on to explain it could be touch and go.

I got it and bought a plane ticket and went the next day to see him. They amputated his lower leg and he recovered. And he went home with all sorts of accouterments like a new removable leg and instructions to come back for regular dialysis. He lived 100 miles away and he couldn’t see well enough to drive it so it became a problem. I guess the VA would not let him go to any local hospital for treatment.

He lived in town for a while, so his friends could help him out and he could get to the Square to pick music with his friends. His house was way out in the woods at least ten miles of highway and four miles of dirt road away from town.

He called me one night and told me, he couldn’t stand not being at his house, so he moved home. It wasn’t long after that that I got a call from my wife. She was crying and saying something about someone calling for me from Mountain View about my dad. I got the phone number from her and called. It was the town deputy’s office and they told me my dad had died.

This time, I left my kids with their grandma and we both flew back to Arkansas to settle up and say goodbye. My sister came from her world and we packed up his house, sold some stuff, gave away some stuff, signed papers, and went one day to the funeral home to “make arrangements.”

My dad had told us he wanted to be cremated. He told me one time, half joking, “Just douse me with gas and light me on fire, don’t spend any money, and have a music party.” Well, I assumed that would be frowned on so we told the funeral guy we wanted him cremated. He said okay and went to do some figuring.

He showed us a piece of paper with some numbers and a list of procedures that would happen, and I ignored all that and looked at the bottom line and it seemed to be a few thousand dollars. I’m a car buyer, I know how to work most systems so we went down the list of all the charges and eliminated all of them except the actual cremation which was $500 or so dollars.

I told the funeral guy that he seemed a nice and good man, but I didn’t think we would be interested in having him say a prayer for $200. He seemed a bit miffed that I would send my dad off on his journey without his godly assistance. It was in Arkansas. And I also turned down all the other fluff he thought we should spend our money on.

The final deal was $700 including the transport of the body to Harrison and the crematorium. I asked if he was charging us $200 to cart him 80 miles. And he said yes.

My dad spoke up again, and what he said came out of my mouth when I said, “I’ve got my rent-a-ride right outside the door. Just toss him in the trunk, I’ll drive him over to Harrison.” He took the delivery charges off.

We didn’t buy his urn either, not the one for $10K, not the one for $700. We opted for the two cardboard boxes split evenly between my sister and me. And we had a big-ass pickin’ party at Jimmy Driftwood’s Barn for a bunch of friends and pickers. I think Daddy would heartily appreciate our efforts.