The Funeral

...

The limo stopped in front of my home at precisely 5:00 pm.  A well-dressed and solicitous young man rang the bell.  When I opened the door, he opened an umbrella and escorted me to the long black car.  We chatted and made small talk as he drove me to the final act in the play “My Mother’s Life.”

Everything went as near according to plan as is possible in my life.  In fact, we even got a few breaks.  The funeral home furnished a priest to celebrate the mass.  In addition, Father Thomas, the priest I recruited from a Parish near the Oklahoma border, arrived in time to assist and offer words of comfort to the assembly of family and friends.  Just before the Mass began, the head priest approached me.  He asked if there was anyone there who might offer a few words about my mother.

“Father, you are in luck,” I told him.  “Come with me.”

I lead the priest over to my nephew, Jason.  Jason is an imposing 6’4” and a uniquely qualified speaker.  He is Pastor at a Baptist church somewhere in south Texas.  In addition, he recently earned his Doctor of Divinity at Baylor University.  Oh, he is also a very nice person and a good husband and father.  He instantly joined the line-up of the Clergy.  I was certain my mother would not be denied entry into Paradise based on lack of clergy at her funeral.

Candles were lit, incense burned and prayers offered.  The Mass began uneventfully.  After a few minutes, I began feeling a little tug at my coat.  It was my granddaughter, Sophia.

“What are they doing, Grandfather?”   She asked in a stage whisper.

“They are praying to God to let Grandma Lottie into heaven.”  I answered.

Before long, coats and skirts all over the church felt tugs and innocent and profound questions found voice in stage whispers.  After a little more than half an hour, the Mass ended with “The Mass has ended.  You may go in peace.”  And we did.

We stepped out into steady rain and dark skies.  It was a comforting rain.  There were no winds and lightning never flashed.  It felt as if we had permission from the heavens to feel a sense of loss and sadness.

Our little group piled into Limos and rode the hundred yards to the little tent covering the final resting place.  The casket rested above the grave and the chairs under the tent filled quickly.  A few found standing room.  There were more prayers.  “Dust to dust,” and all that.  At the end, the funeral director suggested we could have the flowers piled high on mother’s casket.  I picked one and handed it to a guest.  I repeated this act until everyone had a flower as a reminder of the fragile nature of our lives.  We stood about for a while, chatting, consoling and catching up with those who remained on earth.

Then, it seemed it was time to go.  I found the limo and began the swift trip home.  On the way, I reflected on the times I spent with my mother.  There was the time I dropped a raw oyster into a gallon pot of spaghetti sauce.  I was a mere teenager at the time and I channeled some of my rebelliousness into practical jokes.  (Spaghetti was my mother’s favorite food in the world.  Raw oysters were on the other end of the spectrum.)  Out of a gallon of sauce, stirred and divided among five family members, what were the odds my mother would find “the prize?”

The answer?  100%.

In fact, I think she found “slimy” the oyster on her first bite.  Oh sure, I received a large beating, despite my protests of innocence.  I guess choking with laughter took some of the credibility from my plea.

As I grew, mom sought more effective methods to keep me in line.  Merely hitting me with her hand began to leave her bruised and crippled, so she resorted to whacking the rowdy disobedient with a broom.  It did not work out as she expected.

Once, I did some niggling thing that annoyed her.  Furious, she called my brother to “Bring me my broom!”

“Why?  You going someplace?”  I countered.

Luckily, she dissolved into laughter and the broom dissolved into history.

I must have a hundred or more memories of her that will always make me smile.  I shall cherish (and possibly publish) them as long as I live.

I want to thank all the friends, relatives and neighbors who attended one or more of these services.  It meant a lot to me to see you there.  For those who sent food or flowers, thank you ever so much.  I actually gained a little weight eating better cooking than my own.  The plant I received is flourishing on my patio, even as I type.

May God bless and keep you always.

Hank

…

Camping in with Augie 2.0

…

Despite a life that often mimics a Chinese Fire Drill; I had the pleasure of entertaining one of my three favorite grandsons (so far) over a recent weekend. August, AKA “Augie”, showed up on Saturday afternoon. The usual activities entertained us; reading, jigsaw puzzles (He is a 3-year-old jigsaw genius.), movies and eating from the pantry of goodies. Finally, around eight o’clock, we agreed it was time for bed. Augie wanted to sleep in the “big bed” with Grandfather. I said okay. We both looked forward to a restful ten hours of shut-eye. Instead, we had the following conversation, beginning roughly at lights-out.


“Gwandfather?”

“Yes, Augie.”

“Gwandfather, I’m not comfortable.”

“Okay, find a position that is comfortable.

Augie began flopping, rolling and flailing about under – and above – the covers. This continued for about 20 minutes. After that, we had ten minutes of quiet and stillness.


“Gwandfather, I am thirsty.”

“Huh? Oh. Okay. Just let me turn on the water drinking light…”

I snapped on the bedside lamp and picked up the large glass of water I keep beside the bed. I held it out for the boy and he eagerly slurped it up.

“Had enough? Okay then, let’s get back to sleeping. Close those eyes, now,” I admonished gently. I fell into a deep sleep, almost instantly.


“Gwandfather?”

“Yes, Augie?”

“Gwandfather, I dreamed a bear took the underwear off the triceratops horn and ripped them all up.”

"That’s nice. Let’s not worry about that right now, okay? Let’s get a little sleep. How does that sound?"
He agreed and we fell asleep, I think.

“Gwandfather, it is morning. Can we get up now?”

“What the…” I squinted at the clock with sleep-drugged eyes. It said it was 2:20 A.M. “Augie, it IS technically morning, but it is still time to sleep. I’ll wake you when it’s time to get up, okay?"
He agreed and we laid our sleep heads on the pillows once more.

"Gwandfather, I' thirsty."

"Okay, I'll get the water."

"Gwandfather, you forgot to turn on the water drinking light."

"We don't need it.  Just feel around with your lips until you find the glass."

I shoved the water glass in his general direction.  After a few seconds, his little lips latched onto the glass and the slurping resumed.

"Have you had enough?"

"Yes, Gwandfather.  Thank you."

"Okay. G'night, Augie.  Sweet dreams."




“Raaarrrrhhh!.”

"Eeaaarrgggh! What the [bleep] was that?”

“That is the sound my dragon makes.”

Augie held up a shadowy figure of a plush dragon. It was one of a dozen little stuffed friends helping him get comfortable.

“Okay, let the dragon have a little rest, too, okay? Please?” I crashed.

"Gwandfather, what was that sound?"

"Oh, probably just some old man, tying a noose to the ceiling fan. It is nothing to worry about. Now, let’s see who can pretend to be asleep the longest.” [z]


“Snoooorrrt! My nose is clogged up.”

“So I hear. Would you like some nose spray? I have some saline spray to make it better."

He declined, graciously and said he would be fine without it. I collapsed onto the pillow.


"Snoooorrrt!"

"I’m cold."

“Here let me help you get under the covers. If you are still cold, you can snuggle up with me and I’ll keep you warm.”

With that, Augie began wiggling and kicking under the covers. When he stopped an hour later, he was snuggled against my back with his elbows and knees planted firmly in my kidneys and spine. I was still half-asleep and willing to settle.


“My little tummy is growling. It sounds like this: Grrrrrble, Gurgle.”

“Say, that’s a pretty good impression. I guess that means your tummy is sleepy, right?”

“No, that means my tummy is hungry.”

“We’ll have breakfast soon. Just let me lie here awhile longer,” I begged.


“Gwandfather?”

“Yes, Augie?”


“I tooted.”

“Okay, let’s go see what’s for breakfast…”


We walked down the stairs and waded in to a new day. We ate hearty, played indoors and out. I even managed to stay awake long enough to read a story or two. Eventually, the gods showed mercy and Augie’s mother retrieved him.  He pretended he didn't want to go, but I told him we have to bear up under adversity, like big boys.

It was a challenge, but I am happy we did it. It makes the rest of my life seem so much easier.

…

Life’s Lessons: Going to the Dogs

…

The big day arrived right on time. At 0830, the back door swung open and my granddaughter and her mom swarmed in from the morning chill. My daughter had an early meeting at her office and all the good childcare people in her life had suddenly moved out of state. I was all she had left.

My daughter flung Sophia’s backpack onto the hearth, blurted out a lifetime of child rearing instructions, hugged and kissed everyone several times and “Poof!” She was gone.

I wasted no time implementing my cunning plan.

Step 1 was breakfast of cereal and fruit. At the end of the day, Sophia reported to mommy “we had breakfast with dessert.” I can live with that.

Step 2 began as a surprise ride in Grandfather’s truck. We went directly to the largest store with the largest toy department in the area, Super Target. I put the little girl in the basket seat and off we went. After travelling about twenty feet, she spotted a display of “Stickers.” With Valentine’s Day almost upon us, I could not resist her request to “pull over!” After considering her choices, she picked out some princess stickers for herself and a batch of care bear stickers for her big brother. “Aw, how thoughtful,” I reflected.

Step 3 involved slowly making our way along every aisle in the toy department. Most of the “toys” currently for sale would give nightmares to a combat Marine. It took quite a bit of searching before we discovered a box of puzzles with a princess motif for my granddaughter. Not wanting to be left out, I added a deluxe Wiffle Ball set to the basket. We have needed one of these for several years, y’know.

Step 4 was lunch. I was really in the mood for Bar-B-Que, so I headed for “Memphis Red Hot ‘n Blue.” (MRH&B) I was sure we could find something for Sophia, too.

We did. She slurped her milk and snacked on cheese fries until her creamy macaroni and cheese arrived with a side of, you guessed it, more French fries. I will not even attempt to describe my meal. If you have even been to MRH&B, you can imagine. If not, you would never understand. [urp.]

Step 5 should have been a nap, but it was not. Instead, we visited Remus the dog at my son’s house. It was a stroke of luck that Sophia’s boy cousins, August and Joshua, had just awakened from their naps when we arrived. The two boys and the two girls, Sophia and Remus, played at full throttle for the next two hours. The entire mansion shook in their gleeful swath of destruction. My son and I sat in the den, watching TV and dozing as peacefully as we could under the circumstances. After about two hours, I captured my charge and ruined their fun. After lots of hugging and waving, we pulled out of the driveway and headed home.

Step 6 began when we reached my dwelling on the edge of the forest. We were both showing signs of fatigue. I prepared cookies and milk for my girl and set about picking up some debris in the den.

A small voice said “Grandfather, I frew up.”

“Huh?” I said, looking around.

“I frew up.”

Then, I looked down. “What happened?”

“I frew up, Grandfather.”

She was drooling and her little eyes were watery. Clearly, she did not feel well.

“Uh Oh. Where did you throw up, sweetie?”

“Right there,” she said indicating the floor between us.

Well, it was not my office, so she got credit there. It was only the carpet in the den. As I considered my next move, Sophia stuck her delicate finger down her throat and began again.

“NOOOOOooooo!” I said as soothingly as I could.

Life's Lessons Applied

...
First, I am not doing any more hilarious news stories. Apparently, my readership does not fully appreciate my gifts in this area. Okay, maybe in the far, distant future I might attempt it, if someone begs me. Most of you will probably feel relief instead of the guilt you deserve.  Harumpf!

 --------------------------------------------------------------------------

As many of you know, I recently hosted my son’s dog, Remus, for two action-packed weeks. In the past, Remus seemed disappointed and depressed when abandoned in my care. This time was different. All I had to do was spend my every waking moment doing stuff to entertain a dog. Outdoor exploration was her second favorite. Pooping in my office was third. I believe first place was playing with her cousins from my daughter’s family. When Remus is happy, everyone can tell by her wagging tail and her broad smile.

Tomorrow, I face a similar test. This time, Sophia, my 3-5/6 year-old granddaughter will spend the day with me. Normally, I would fret over entertainments, treats and activities. This time, I believe I have a sure-fire plan. Some may recognize a few elements I picked up from my time with Remus. Here it is:

First, we will breakfast on Rice Chex. My pantry is the only place in our family where this treat exists.

Next, weather permitting; we shall pay outdoors for a while. I will let her have plenty of time to sniff about among the trees and shrubs. Since Santa brought her a new baseball glove for Christmas, I will remind my daughter to bring it with her. This is the equivalent of fetching a stick with Remus. Sophia probably cannot catch a ball yet, but then Remus just looks at me as if I stepped off a flying saucer when I throw the stick for her. Still, I think they both enjoy it.

If the weather is inclement, I believe we can substitute shopping at a large toy store for the outdoor part.  Same thrill.  Different species.

At lunch, we will dine out. Mickey D’s is a possibility. “Memphis Red Hot ‘n Blue Bar-B-Q” is another. Either way, at least one of us will get a “Happy Meal.”

Then, for the grand finally, we shall travel to my son’s house to visit Remus. I know the girl and the dog will be more than happy to see each other. We will play there until our welcome has worn out or somebody needs a nap. That will be me, most likely.

I reserved the later afternoon for coloring, watching educational TV or possibly taking in a matinee, time and movie fare permitting.

The best part is this: Sophia is fully potty trained. There is less than a 1% chance that anyone will poop in my office!

I shall let you know how it turns out.

…

Grandmas

...
My friend Ray in Hoboken sent this.  Given the recent episodes of grandparent v. grandchildren, I think this little story is a good fit.  Maybe even a laughing fit.
...


I was out walking with my Grandson. He picked up something off of the ground and started to put it in his mouth. I took the item away from him and I asked him not to do that.
 
"Why?" my Grandson asked.
 
"Because it's been on the ground; you don't know where it's been, it's dirty, and probably has germs," I replied.
 
At this point, my Grandson looked at me with total admiration and asked, "Grandma, how do you know all this stuff? You are so smart."
 
I was thinking quickly and said, "All Grandmas know stuff. It's on the Grandma Test. You have to know it, or they don't let you be a Grandma."
 
We walked along in silence for 2 or 3 minutes, but he was evidently pondering this new information.
 
"Oh....I get it!" he beamed, "So if you don't pass the test you have to be the Grandpa".
 
"Exactly," I replied with a big smile on my face.
 
...

Getting Religion

…

After Baptizing my grandson, we headed for my son’s house to celebrate. The crowd included Joshua’s godparents, Paul, Melissa and their two children, Collin and Julianne. They flew in from Chicago for the occasion.

It was a typical after-baptism party. The women folk scurried about the kitchen, while the adult males contributed by remaining outside, sipping margaritas and beer. We solved the weightier problems of the world while the women organized the food.

The children, ranging in age from nine months to 12 years, played happily in the backyard. My son’s backyard has the size and feel of a city park. It is a carpet of lush grass dotted with mature hardwood trees at comfortable intervals. It is kid Heaven. The pack swarmed over the yard, squealing and laughing with delight. A play set, soccer balls, silly string and water pistols provided for the children’s amusement. There were also balloons suitable for filling with water.

Can you guess where this is going?

Eventually, the silly string cans ran out and the soccer ball disappeared. Inevitably, a water pistol duel broke out. Soon, 10-year-old Collin became bored with squirting the younger children and sought more dangerous game.

My son-in-law and I remained sanguine on the patio, sipping our drinks and discussing Spinoza, as I recall. Even as streams of water split the air around us, we remained untouchable. It was a precarious balance.

I could almost hear Collin’s moral fiber straining. In my heart, I knew he would eventually squirt an adult, just because they were there. I took the precaution of explaining to him that I was wearing my “good shirt” and a necktie worth more to me than his life. My lecture bought us the exact amount of time it took me to deliver it.

Minutes later, Collin squirted the back of my son-in-law’s head. Then, I got mine. It was a warm evening, so I was probably sweated-out, anyway. It was a cooling, if not a cool experience. Once Collin breached the adult – child barrier, there seemed no going back. He danced around us like a TV cop, squirting both son-in-law and me at will. We pleaded, but to no avail.

Then, my son showed up.

“Can I get you something else,” he asked solicitously.

“We would certainly like another round, if you don’t mind. And could you bring two large glasses of ice water?”

He returned with two drinks and two vengeance weapons. I mean glasses of water. As astonishing as it may seem, Collin failed to notice the water in front of us. If he knew us at all, he would have realized we never drink water.

In a few seconds, the boy refilled and resumed his attack. Son-in-law and I were becoming damp. After an acrobatic pass, he turned to go into the house.

He did not make it. Instead, he ended up sitting in a puddle of ice water on a bench on the patio. My son caught a few drops of the cold stuff as collateral damage, but more on that later.

“Mr. Burden and his son-in-law threw water on me! I’m going to tell Mom!” He moaned to his sister.

“Go ahead. She could use a laugh.” She said, laughing sympathetically.

I went into the house and forewarned the parents that justice had been served and their son was sopping wet on the patio. They seemed good with it.

It was time to go. We exchanged good-byes and I was climbing into my pickup truck when the first water balloon whizzed over my head. A quick glance revealed my son had launched the attack. Apparently, the earlier overspray incident distressed him.

I sped away before he could reload.

The next day I learned carnage erupted after my escape. My son pasted my son-in-law with another water balloon. Then, my daughter got revenge on my son with the ultimate weapon, the garden hose. It was a water pistol and balloon Armageddon. At first, my mental image was of a Three Stooges pie fight, only with water instead of custard. Now, I just think of it as an extended group Baptism, befitting the occasion. Everyone had a grand time. I am sorry I missed it. Almost.

I hope Collin got religion and learned not to fight above his weight.

…

Small Adventures: The Crescendo

…

On Tuesday following Memorial Day, I “sat on” my daughter’s two angels. My daughter pressed me into service during an extraordinary confluence of circumstances. She was busy at work and the local jails and schools closed. I sketched the experience in my last post, Small Adventures I.

Now, let us fast forward to last Friday, the final day of the “Child Care Crisis,” as I call it and as seen on CNN.

My daughter agreed to deliver my charges early Friday morning. This was a big help, saving me from rising before dawn and driving forty-five minutes while sound asleep. Promptly at 0900, the back door swung open and the grandchildren, their possessions and mommy flooded through. In a few seconds, we were on our own and Mommy was laying rubber down my driveway.

“Good morning, children,” I said cheerfully. I was still rubbing sleep from my eyes, but I wanted to get off to a good start.

“We’re hungry! Would you fix us pancakes?” They spoke in a tone suitable for starving children in one of those loser countries. It is fair to note I brought this on myself. Months ago, I made pancakes for them using my secret recipe. They have not forgotten.

“Uh, I suppose. Have you not had breakfast?”

The two looking up at me were models for a Margaret Keane print. You know, the pictures of large-eyed children looking like they just learned their puppy died. It was clearly a ploy to take advantage of grandfather’s softhearted nature.

“Okay, you two sit at the table and I’ll make pancakes. “ Let us face it. I was surrounded.

The children retired to the kitchen table while I retrieved bacon and pancake mix. I covered the griddle with bacon and whipped up a bowl of my secret recipe.

The bacon had just begun sizzling when the backdoor opened once more. It was my son and his eldest who is two and change.

In 30 seconds, I acquired a third starving child who was willing to try a pancake. 20 minutes later, the crew followed me out the backdoor and down the terrace to the picnic table. Each of my arms carried carefully balanced plates with hot cakes and bacon. I was careful not to allow the syrup to slosh over the edge of the plate. Pouring syrup onto pancakes until they float is a favorite of the grandchildren.

The four of us enjoyed our syrupy bacon and pancakes al fresco. Chilled orange juice helped dissolve the sugar from our throats. After ten minutes, the flies became an issue, so I shooed the pests away. I have not seen a fly here in years. I guess they have been biding their time until the right moment and this was it.

The children ate every crumb and licked the syrup from their plates before we went inside.

Filled with sugary goodness, they were content to remain in the playroom, but only so long as I was with them. If one needed to visit the bathroom, the others would come with, waiting patiently outside the door until grandfather and grandchild emerged in a cloud of relief. This is full-on togetherness.

At play, the children sorted themselves out. The eldest (5) selected a suitcase of Legos. His little sister (3) chose Play Doh. The youngest played with tiny cars that are actually characters from the animated movie of the same name.

Me? I moved among the children, first finding a door for a Lego castle, then pressing a giraffe from Play Doh and finally yelling “Vrrooom!” as I pushed a little car toward the little guy.

By mid afternoon, grandfather was having sinking spells. I made excuses to check my emails, bring in the mail, brush my teeth and any other thing I could think of to enjoy a five-minute collapse.

I was considering running away from home when my son showed up and retrieved his boy.

An hour later, Mommy arrived. We fed the children frozen chicken parts and milk before packing them back into the car for the trip home.

Finally, the house was empty. Puzzles, cars, and Legos were scattered in the playroom. Flecks of color marked the Play Doh area. Storybooks covered every flat surface. The ‘fridge and pantry were decimated. Grandfather was a wreck.

Still, victory was mine. I had survived a full day with three sweet but deadly grandchildren. I cannot help wondering how mothers routinely survive decades of unrelenting devotion required to raise a child to early adulthood.

I was lucky to last the week.

…

Weekend at Grandfather's

[Monday, Nov. 23, 2009]  My lovely daughter and her husband just left with their two delightful children. Thank goodness. I watched over the two angels since last Friday afternoon and I am completely whipped.

A few weeks ago one of my loyal readers suggested I have a “massive sleepover” for my grandchildren. Naturally, I dismissed the idea as madness. Don’t get me wrong. I love the grandchildren with all my heart. I am also fond of nights of uninterrupted sleep, violent TV programs, spicy food and adult beverages. I also enjoy intervals of silence lasting more than ten seconds. In short, all the things that are good for grandfather are anathema to the children. Imagine my surprise when I found myself agreeing to keep my daughter’s two babies over a long weekend. I found myself saying “Sure.” when I expected to say “Oh, Hell no!”

It is too late to cry over spilled milk. The children dribbled, sprayed and splashed more than a quart of the stuff about the house over the weekend. It won’t help to cry over the chicken fingers, macaroni and cheese, apples, juice, chocolate kisses, popcorn or any other foodstuff, either. They simply disappeared. The ants who come in to clean will find them, eventually.

When they arrived, a sense of excitement over the upcoming adventure filled their little hearts. “They’ve been looking forward to this all week.” Said Mommy. Looking back, maybe the parents should have brought Rhinoceros grade tranquilizer darts as part of the kit. I would have shot myself almost immediately after their departure, if only I had them available.

When it was time for mom and dad to leave, all bets were off. The sense of adventure vanished and a sense of abandonment and terror set in. I have seldom heard such wailing and pleading in my life. Somehow, mom and dad bore up under the emotional assault and fled for a romantic escape to the snowy slopes of Utah. Me? I continued to wail and plead for some time after they drove away.

My daughter furnished manuals describing bedtime and other essential rituals. It said, “Bedtime is between 7:30 and 8:00 p.m.” At the appropriate time, I jammied the two urchins and brushed their tiny teeth. Then I popped them in bed where they continued howling for mommy for the next few hours. When mommy did not appear, they wept as if I murdered a puppy before their innocent little eyes. I began feeling panic and depression. At dawn, the little ones capitulated and slept the rest of the night.

“That went well.” I lied.

Ultimately, I abandoned hope and devoted myself to getting through ten-minute intervals, one after the other. My life became a predictable series of chicken strips, apple juice, clean-ups, diapers, oatmeal, lost toys, clean-ups, boo-boos, snits, spats, clean-ups, bribes, heart-warming smiles and loving hugs.

When the parents returned on Monday afternoon, I noticed some remarkable changes. First, I learned some people are born mothers and others have motherhood thrust upon them. Even though it almost [?] cost me my sanity, I became a mom (or dad), pro tempore. Even the grandchildren slipped up and called me “Mommy” or “Daddy” a couple of times. We shall disregard the other names.

Second, I am certain I shall need a vacation in the immediate future. I am thinking of snowy Utah, or perhaps Banff, Canada. In six weeks, I could be as good as new. Almost. Mothers are certainly made of stern stuff.

Eva, how can I ever repay you?