Sunday, May 27, 2007
Exit Laughing
We didn't lay him to rest. We tossed him.
--------
I napped for about an hour before loading up the car and driving to the airport in the early AM. Normally the drive takes only about twenty minutes, but that morning I clipped the first wave of rush hour which slowed me to concern and constant glances at the clock. I'd back-timed my drive to get me to the airport an hour before wheels up, the slowed traffic threatened to cut it to a dangerous half-hour.
Fortunately, once past the clog, I was able to resume my normal ten miles-per-hour over speed limit and got to the airport on schedule. Unfortunately, the parking garage was full which meant I was going to have to hunt for an open spot in the uncovered airport lot and shuttle in. While I circled the nearly full lot, I wondered what karmic retribution was in play here. Could it have been payback for feeling relieved my sister wasn't making the trip? Possibly.
I found a spot in row S, backed in - right in to a little tree. I trimmed a few branches upon opening the trunk to get my suitcase. I started walking towards the terminal, eventually coming upon an attendant who asked me if I wanted a shuttle, I said "Whatever." He radioed while I kept walking then informed me I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the terminal due to construction. "Then why ask if I wanted a shuttle, dip-shit?" I wanted to say, but didn't.
At the terminal, I tipped the driver hoping to regain some good karma. I wasn't happy and wasn't able or willing to put on a smile for anyone as I made my way through security and on to the gate. I kept my shades on and wasted no time getting the iPod plugged in once in the air. My seat mate was on chat mode and I was not in the mood to hear all about the book she was reading and its christian messages. Bob Dylan and his Visions of Johanna put up a solid barrier of sound and I was left alone for the remainder of the trip.
After arrival in Portland, a shuttle to the rental car and another karmic tip, I was rewarded with a loaded Impala replete with sun roof, electric black leather seats, varnished wood accent, OnStar and - most importantly - mp3 aux plug-in, XM satellite radio and Bose speakers. Score.
----------------------------
"Bracken rest-home and mortuary. How can we help you in your time of sorrow?"
"Dad, that's not funny," I heard my niece say in the background with a trickle of laughter.
My brother gave me directions to the mortuary where we were to meet and complete the paperwork needed for my Dad's cremation. When I arrived, I couldn't find the front door and so went in a side door. A man came bounding down the stairs and disappeared, oblivious to my presence. I explored a couple of empty rooms, then startled the man who was on his way back up the stairs. I wondered if he was scared of ghosts.
He took me to the office then disappeared again. I was restless and didn't want to sit. I wandered into the reception area where sappy, serene mortuary music was being piped in. I unlatched a door to peak in to the sanctuary, but then couldn't get it latched again. Extricating myself from that Seinfeld moment, I escaped back to the office where I discovered the closet was being used for the file cabinets and toilet paper storage.
I thumbed through a few pamphlets which cautioned me to plan ahead and save my relatives the burden of my funeral arrangements. I wondered which funeral package included one of the phone book covers which were fanned out on a counter.
My brother arrived and the funeral director gave me the paper-work to co-sign. We were informed, in appropriately hushed funeral director tones, that my father's ashes would be ready for pick-up on Saturday. We said thank-you in not so appropriate, chipper tones as we departed.
I followed my brother over to my Dad's apartment at the nursing home, where we continued sorting and tossing. Being the sentimental pack-rat I am, my pile was much too large, but I wasn't able to thin it out. We reached a stopping point and I took a load out to the trash bins. When I returned, my brother had mixed two gins and gatorade - it was the only mix available.
I phoned my sister in Hawaii and after she mixed a Bombay and tonic with a twist of lemon, we toasted our Dad.
----------------------------
"He didn't get a can? At least Mom got a can." I stared at the box on the counter which loudly proclaimed in large, bold print it was a TEMPORARY CONTAINER.
"She didn't get a can, we bought the can," my niece replied.
We were all unsuccessfully stifling fits of laughter. Our family has long had a warped sense of humor. An outsider might think we were an insensitive, heartless brood but we understand our laughter is what gets us through the hard times. We also understood no-one would have enjoyed our misplaced mirth more then my Dad.
My grand-nephew bounded down the stairs and came face to face with the box. "What's in it? A birthday present for me?"
"Nope. That's Grandpa Kenny." My grand-nephew immediately made a sad face as he peered at the box. "I wish I had a picture of that," I said. Without missing a beat, holding the look on his face, my grand-nephew said "Get the camera." Which I did and snapped the photo between belly laughs.
My brother opened the box and lifted out the heavy plastic sack.
"Looks like Quik-Set" commented my nephew. I glanced at him. "We could put him in a driveway..."
I was handed a scoop retrieved from a kitchen drawer and charged with the task of divvying up some of the ashes which were going to Hawaii, Oklahoma and to southern Oregon. Secured in baggies we then entered into an intense discussion of how we were going to disburse the remaining ashes.
When he was able, my Dad would drive to the post-office then visit "the office" to read the mail and start his day. "The office" was a parking spot at the cove in Seaside. He'd read the mail and watch the die-hard surfers who'd come out in droves to brave the rocks and the frigid water to get their fix on their boards. That's where we wanted to "dispurse" him.
"Do we just want to toss the ashes in?" I offered. "No, probably not," replied my niece. "We won't know which way the wind is blowing."
"Oh, yeah. One toss and we'd have a Lewbowski moment..."
"I'm going to open the top of the bag and then throw it in," commanded my brother. Alrighty, then.
-----------------------
The rest of the morning was filled with preparations for my nephew's eleventh birthday party. A cake was decorated, a pinata was debated. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate then a celebration of a young life - a fitting transition.
My grand-niece came bounding in the door just as my brother, niece, nephew and his wife, and I were leaving to drive to the cove for the final farewell.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Mom replied "We're taking Grandpa Kenny's ashes to the cove."
"What??"
"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you, Grandpa Kenny died..."
With a thirteen-year-old's typical flair, my grand-niece replied, "Whatever..."
It was raining, but nearly all the parking spaces were filled at the cove. With a storm coming in, the surf was prime and the surfers were taking full advantage.
"This is going to be hard to do without being seen," I said. We headed down the slick slope of rocks towards the water.
"We're going to have to be quick. I'm not going to jail," my brother replied.
"Yeah, you're supposed to get a permit." My nephew's reprimand exacted only a terse reply from his Dad. "I'm not paying a couple of hundred bucks for a permit..." He was cut off by a misplaced step which nearly caused a premature launch of the bag in his hand.
"Why not find a hole in the rocks with a pool and pour it in," I shouted as I nearly fell face forward on a slick boulder.
"Let me take it." The bag was handed off and my nephew picked his way across the boulders. The rest of us were scattered up the slope, unable to go any farther.
I raised the camera just in time to capture the moment. The bag was hoisted and flew into the waters of the Pacific. We all said our silent goodbyes.
--------------
Later, amidst the frenetic energy of a house full of ten and eleven year old boys, the adults gathered in the kitchen. I looked at the faces around me and felt as though I was wrapped in a warm blanket of family - lots of laughter, lots of love. We all weathered this transition in our own, unique manner. We didn't require ceremony, all that was needed was coming together, being in each other's company, sharing memories...
My share of my Dad's ashes currently reside in another temporary container on top of my refrigerator. It sits next to the container of a share of my Mother's ashes and the little stuffed reindeer that plays "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."
Another story, for another time. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
---------------
To all of you who took the time to comment, e-mail, IM, and call, your words of comfort and condolence are greatly appreciated and they have gone a long way to help me through this rough patch. I can never thank you enough. Truly.
--------
I napped for about an hour before loading up the car and driving to the airport in the early AM. Normally the drive takes only about twenty minutes, but that morning I clipped the first wave of rush hour which slowed me to concern and constant glances at the clock. I'd back-timed my drive to get me to the airport an hour before wheels up, the slowed traffic threatened to cut it to a dangerous half-hour.
Fortunately, once past the clog, I was able to resume my normal ten miles-per-hour over speed limit and got to the airport on schedule. Unfortunately, the parking garage was full which meant I was going to have to hunt for an open spot in the uncovered airport lot and shuttle in. While I circled the nearly full lot, I wondered what karmic retribution was in play here. Could it have been payback for feeling relieved my sister wasn't making the trip? Possibly.
I found a spot in row S, backed in - right in to a little tree. I trimmed a few branches upon opening the trunk to get my suitcase. I started walking towards the terminal, eventually coming upon an attendant who asked me if I wanted a shuttle, I said "Whatever." He radioed while I kept walking then informed me I wouldn't be allowed to walk to the terminal due to construction. "Then why ask if I wanted a shuttle, dip-shit?" I wanted to say, but didn't.
At the terminal, I tipped the driver hoping to regain some good karma. I wasn't happy and wasn't able or willing to put on a smile for anyone as I made my way through security and on to the gate. I kept my shades on and wasted no time getting the iPod plugged in once in the air. My seat mate was on chat mode and I was not in the mood to hear all about the book she was reading and its christian messages. Bob Dylan and his Visions of Johanna put up a solid barrier of sound and I was left alone for the remainder of the trip.
After arrival in Portland, a shuttle to the rental car and another karmic tip, I was rewarded with a loaded Impala replete with sun roof, electric black leather seats, varnished wood accent, OnStar and - most importantly - mp3 aux plug-in, XM satellite radio and Bose speakers. Score.
----------------------------
"Bracken rest-home and mortuary. How can we help you in your time of sorrow?"
"Dad, that's not funny," I heard my niece say in the background with a trickle of laughter.
My brother gave me directions to the mortuary where we were to meet and complete the paperwork needed for my Dad's cremation. When I arrived, I couldn't find the front door and so went in a side door. A man came bounding down the stairs and disappeared, oblivious to my presence. I explored a couple of empty rooms, then startled the man who was on his way back up the stairs. I wondered if he was scared of ghosts.
He took me to the office then disappeared again. I was restless and didn't want to sit. I wandered into the reception area where sappy, serene mortuary music was being piped in. I unlatched a door to peak in to the sanctuary, but then couldn't get it latched again. Extricating myself from that Seinfeld moment, I escaped back to the office where I discovered the closet was being used for the file cabinets and toilet paper storage.
I thumbed through a few pamphlets which cautioned me to plan ahead and save my relatives the burden of my funeral arrangements. I wondered which funeral package included one of the phone book covers which were fanned out on a counter.
My brother arrived and the funeral director gave me the paper-work to co-sign. We were informed, in appropriately hushed funeral director tones, that my father's ashes would be ready for pick-up on Saturday. We said thank-you in not so appropriate, chipper tones as we departed.
I followed my brother over to my Dad's apartment at the nursing home, where we continued sorting and tossing. Being the sentimental pack-rat I am, my pile was much too large, but I wasn't able to thin it out. We reached a stopping point and I took a load out to the trash bins. When I returned, my brother had mixed two gins and gatorade - it was the only mix available.
I phoned my sister in Hawaii and after she mixed a Bombay and tonic with a twist of lemon, we toasted our Dad.
----------------------------
"He didn't get a can? At least Mom got a can." I stared at the box on the counter which loudly proclaimed in large, bold print it was a TEMPORARY CONTAINER."She didn't get a can, we bought the can," my niece replied.
We were all unsuccessfully stifling fits of laughter. Our family has long had a warped sense of humor. An outsider might think we were an insensitive, heartless brood but we understand our laughter is what gets us through the hard times. We also understood no-one would have enjoyed our misplaced mirth more then my Dad.
My grand-nephew bounded down the stairs and came face to face with the box. "What's in it? A birthday present for me?"
"Nope. That's Grandpa Kenny." My grand-nephew immediately made a sad face as he peered at the box. "I wish I had a picture of that," I said. Without missing a beat, holding the look on his face, my grand-nephew said "Get the camera." Which I did and snapped the photo between belly laughs.
My brother opened the box and lifted out the heavy plastic sack.
"Looks like Quik-Set" commented my nephew. I glanced at him. "We could put him in a driveway..."
I was handed a scoop retrieved from a kitchen drawer and charged with the task of divvying up some of the ashes which were going to Hawaii, Oklahoma and to southern Oregon. Secured in baggies we then entered into an intense discussion of how we were going to disburse the remaining ashes.
When he was able, my Dad would drive to the post-office then visit "the office" to read the mail and start his day. "The office" was a parking spot at the cove in Seaside. He'd read the mail and watch the die-hard surfers who'd come out in droves to brave the rocks and the frigid water to get their fix on their boards. That's where we wanted to "dispurse" him.
"Do we just want to toss the ashes in?" I offered. "No, probably not," replied my niece. "We won't know which way the wind is blowing."
"Oh, yeah. One toss and we'd have a Lewbowski moment..."
"I'm going to open the top of the bag and then throw it in," commanded my brother. Alrighty, then.
-----------------------
The rest of the morning was filled with preparations for my nephew's eleventh birthday party. A cake was decorated, a pinata was debated. I couldn't think of anything more appropriate then a celebration of a young life - a fitting transition.
My grand-niece came bounding in the door just as my brother, niece, nephew and his wife, and I were leaving to drive to the cove for the final farewell.
"Where are you going?" she asked. Her Mom replied "We're taking Grandpa Kenny's ashes to the cove."
"What??"
"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you, Grandpa Kenny died..."
With a thirteen-year-old's typical flair, my grand-niece replied, "Whatever..."
It was raining, but nearly all the parking spaces were filled at the cove. With a storm coming in, the surf was prime and the surfers were taking full advantage.
"This is going to be hard to do without being seen," I said. We headed down the slick slope of rocks towards the water.
"We're going to have to be quick. I'm not going to jail," my brother replied.
"Yeah, you're supposed to get a permit." My nephew's reprimand exacted only a terse reply from his Dad. "I'm not paying a couple of hundred bucks for a permit..." He was cut off by a misplaced step which nearly caused a premature launch of the bag in his hand.
"Why not find a hole in the rocks with a pool and pour it in," I shouted as I nearly fell face forward on a slick boulder.
"Let me take it." The bag was handed off and my nephew picked his way across the boulders. The rest of us were scattered up the slope, unable to go any farther.
I raised the camera just in time to capture the moment. The bag was hoisted and flew into the waters of the Pacific. We all said our silent goodbyes.
--------------
Later, amidst the frenetic energy of a house full of ten and eleven year old boys, the adults gathered in the kitchen. I looked at the faces around me and felt as though I was wrapped in a warm blanket of family - lots of laughter, lots of love. We all weathered this transition in our own, unique manner. We didn't require ceremony, all that was needed was coming together, being in each other's company, sharing memories...
My share of my Dad's ashes currently reside in another temporary container on top of my refrigerator. It sits next to the container of a share of my Mother's ashes and the little stuffed reindeer that plays "Grandma got run over by a reindeer."
Another story, for another time. Makes me smile just thinking about it.
---------------
To all of you who took the time to comment, e-mail, IM, and call, your words of comfort and condolence are greatly appreciated and they have gone a long way to help me through this rough patch. I can never thank you enough. Truly.
Labels: family
Posted at 11:15 PM | |
