The Funeral

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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

…

Sunday

Sunday is my official day of rest.  Aside from continuous napping, I restrict my activities to motorcycle riding and lawn care.  If I must “do” the landscaping on Sunday, I make it a point to do a half-assed job.  That way I do not feel so much resentment over the intrusion into my life.

This Sunday was special.  My schedule included meeting my daughter and her family at the North Park Shopping Mall for my grandson’s hastily rescheduled birthday party.  That his great grandmother has passed away on his exact birthday bummed us out.  We wanted to get back to a normal life for our newly minted Six year-old as soon as possible.  We were to convene at 11:00 am.  We could celebrate until we left for the chapel and my mother’s Rosary by 4:30, so we had a ton of time.

I felt no guilt over lying in my bed, listening to the morning show on CBS and scanning the Sunday newspaper.  I sipped tea and rested up for the big day to follow.  It was cloudy and rainy.  Storms lingered, left over from a night of mayhem.

My telephone rang.  Did you ever notice how many bad things begin with a telephone call?  I answered confidently.  I felt all the bad news that was remotely possible drained from my universe by recent events.  Hubris filled me.  Naturally.

“Good Morning, Sarah!”  I said cheerfully.

“Hey, Dad.  I just called to say the birthday party might have to be postponed.”

“What on Earth for?  Is everything alright?”

“Not exactly.  Our power went out early this morning.  The house is smoking and the plumbing is leaking inside the house and the Fire Department is here.  They say the house might burst into flames any time.  BAWWWW - BOO HOO HOO!”

“Great Googly Moogly!  Is everyone safe?”

“Yes, but we had to gather all our belongings and put them in the car.  We are almost homeless!”

My daughter calmed down a bit and I offered to drive to Ft. Worth, just in case she needed more storage space.  I would bring my truck along with me…

I raced westward.  When I arrived at my destination half a dozen of Ft. Worth’s finest milled about.  A large fire truck parked, lights flashing, in front of my daughter’s house.  The firemen were using some high-tech infrared devices to track heat sources lurking in the attic and behind the walls.  Their diagnosis?  Lightning struck the electric meter causing a large amount of current to pass through the house through the wiring and copper plumbing.  Much of it was still smoking when I arrived.

I hung out until my family headed for a nearby hotel – their home for the next few weeks.  The firemen stayed until the electric company found time to drop by and kill the electricity at the pole.  They stayed with the house until there were no signs of extra heat to be found.  God Bless them!

Weak but relieved, I returned home and collapsed.  Before I knew it, time to head for the Rosary arrived.  I dressed, but inside I felt weak and wrinkled.  I drove to the funeral home arriving a little early.  Soon, friends, family, grandchildren and neighbors flooded the chapel.  The young ones gathered at their great grandmother’s casket to discuss what might be happening.  “It is sort of like being asleep,” said one.  “Yes, her soul goes to heaven but I think they’ll put her in the ground.”  Another one said.  “Is she coming back?”  “No, I don’t think so.”  It was a touching scene.  At that moment, the gift of innocence seemed more precious than gold – or eternal life, for that matter.

In time, the Rosary began.  The children moved to the very farthest pews where they could continue their discussions uninterrupted.  Before long, the Deacon leading our prayer service was shouting to be heard over the din in the rear.  Scowl as he might, the little angels in the back paid little attention.  I think someone finally went back there and explained “SHUT UP!” to them.  All was quiet for about a minute.

As eternity approached, we reached the end of the service.  In ones and twos, people began drifting back to the parking lot and normal[ish] lives.  It was dark and rainy.  The forecast called for more of the same tomorrow.  “Perfect,” I thought.

I specifically avoided thinking of the havoc the grandchildren might raise during Mass.  They are all good little heathens, as far as I can tell.  Besides, what could be a more powerful reminder that life goes on?

And do not worry. Eventually, my grandson got to celebrate his birthday at the Lego store.  Reports indicate he was exhausted after looking at and playing with as many blocks as he could.  Also, I hear a large bag of blocks found their way home with him.  Good for him!

 …

Grandmas

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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.
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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.
 
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