A Moving Experience

A friend of mine often jokes that I should have my own reality show, because so many weird things happen to me. After today, I’m starting to take the idea seriously. I had planned a lazy Sunday—my granddaughters spent the night with me, and we were going to sleep late then go out for breakfast. However, I was roused from my bed by the phone ringing at 9:00 a.m.

I don’t function well without coffee, particularly first thing in the morning--no matter how late the morning starts. Whenever Bunny brought me coffee in bed, that was a big hint that he had something planned for the day. Now, without the benefit of caffeine, all I could hear was frantic babbling.

“Movers…jacked up…hostage!” A friend of mine had bought a bunch of furniture at an auction in Clearwater, and now the movers who’d been hired were apparently changing the terms of the agreement. Could I go down there and see what was going on? Would Joey be interested in going with me to supervise the movers? Joey actually worked for a moving company for awhile, so he was the perfect person to come along. The movers were supposed to start at 10:00 a.m.

First I called Joey to gauge his interest. My friend would pay him a flat rate, and I estimated the job wouldn’t take more than two or three hours. I’ve moved several times, both internationally (from Germany to the U.S.) and interstate (Louisiana to Georgia to Florida), and several times intrastate, so I have some experience knowing how much stuff will fit into a moving truck. I had actually previewed the furniture for my friend on Friday afternoon, so I knew where it was and how much of it there was. Very dark cherry, Horse & Hound style—not my taste at all—but nice, heavy, quality pieces, all in good condition. Professional movers should have had no problem fitting it all into the truck in that amount of time, if not less. He was willing. We’d meet at Steak-N-Shake (yes, they serve breakfast), and Corey would take the kids and I would take Joey to Clearwater.

So I threw on some (very) casual clothes, applied a minimum of makeup, and dressed Sarita while Trinity got ready. We headed out for breakfast, JoCo joined us, and then Joey and I headed for Clearwater. If the movers were starting at 10:00 a.m., they should be well into the job by the time we got there. The furniture was actually at two locations. We went to the one where, logically, the movers should have been—the one with the biggest pieces of furniture. Naturally, the movers were at the other location. The guy in charge of our location called the guy in charge of the other place to see how far along the movers were.

“They’ve got about 30 minutes left.” There was no sense in going to the other location, since it was about 15 minutes away. There was a question of whether everything would fit into one truck. so we told them to bring everything over to the second place and we’d sort it all out there. We had inventoried the stuff that was to go onto the truck at our location when we first got there. Then we waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, a Penske truck pulled up, and Joey jumped up to meet the sole occupant. It wasn’t the truck we were waiting for; it was someone else who’d bought furniture.

After about another hour, as we were sitting in the lobby looking out on the parking lot, a well-worn, dirty white moving truck pulled up. The driver peered uncertainly at the building.

“It looks like the movers from Funny Farm!” Joey said. His unexpected reference to the Chevy Chase movie threw me into a fit of laughter. So dead-on, so funny, so perfect.

Eventually, the three-man crew made its way into the building to start taking apart the desks. I hate to judge books by their covers, and try very hard not to, but these guys made it very difficult. Two of them looked like they hadn’t seen soap and water in quite awhile. Or shampoo. The movers I’ve seen before had uniforms, not wife-beaters. On the plus side, the lack of sleeves did allow for viewing the full sleeves of tattoos. I’m an art lover, but “Never Trust Bitches” is probably an acquired taste.

They’d brought only the desks from the other location, which meant they’d left behind about half the stuff they were supposed to have on the truck. There was plenty of room on the truck, but their boss had told them to only move the desks.

“Then get him on the phone. You’re supposed to move everything.” I said. Since the unexpected mark-up, my friend had Googled the moving company, and let’s just say they don’t get stellar reviews. If there was still room on the truck after they loaded this location, they’d go back, he assured me. After he talked to his boss. Besides, there was another mover coming for that other stuff. I assured him he was mistaken—he was the only mover who’d been hired.

They weren’t the hardest working movers I’ve ever seen: it took them a little over two hours just to get nine desks loaded. The crew leader huffed and puffed and moaned and groaned like he was 80 years old, but he was actually younger than Joey. He also had difficulty keeping his crew on task—he had to occasionally go looking for them. At about desk number seven, he made it clear that the desks were all they were taking.

Another argument ensued, and I even got in the truck at one point to demonstrate how much room was left in the truck, and how the contract was for the whole truck. Joey made suggestions about how they could maximize the space they had, but they were adamant—the boss had told them that only the desks were being moved. The boss who now wasn’t answering the calls that the crew leader was allegedly making to him.

They closed up the truck and were “going for a snack” while they waited for the boss to call them back. Side note: we were on a corner lot, and there were two big convenience stores directly across the streets in either direction. Snacks were easily in walking distance. We suspected we’d seen the last of our reluctant movers.

Meanwhile, I was on the phone to my friend, who actually managed to get hold of the boss’s wife. I can only imagine that conversation, but I’m sure that at least some of it consisted of him disabusing her of any book-cover judging her crew leader had done of me and my sidekick. We weren’t just some haphazardly-dressed mother with a know-it-all son; we were an attorney (with photographs) and her hired gun moving expert.

While we were mid-dial at trying to find a moving truck of our own, the movers reappeared. They were less happy than they’d been the first time, but they were back. They loaded in more stuff and ignored more suggestions. At one point, Joey offered to climb into the truck and load chairs onto the top of the stack of desks. Instead, they piled chairs onto the lower sections of the furniture, declared the truck full, and left.

As they were peevishly loading the chairs in, yet another box truck pulled up, with another guy coming to pick up furniture. Joey was the first to notice his license plate—he was from Gwinnett County, Georgia. Joey greeted this new guy like he was an old friend. My sonny has the gift of gab—he’s the kind of person who truly never meets a stranger.

I could go on and on with the story, but to bring it quickly to a close, we talked the new guy into bringing all the left-over furniture to my house, where it’s safe in my garage instead of out on the streets of Clearwater. So, what started out to be an easy few hours turned into a long, drawn-out affair. On the plus side, I got to spend the day with Joey, trading barbs and laughs and working together to try to solve a series of problems.

“I enjoyed spending the day with you, even though it didn’t turn out like we thought,” I said as I drove him back to his house.

“Yeah, but it would’ve been a lot better doing something fun,” he answered.

We’ll do something fun another day. What matters most is that we got through this day as a team, and we enjoyed ourselves despite the circumstances.

Surprises

In one of my prior posts, I talked about Bunny’s office (Cleaning House, 1/22/12), and how I’d decided to postpone clearing it out for awhile. A lot has happened since then, but when I was visiting Joey and his family last weekend, I declared that this coming Sunday would be The Day: I was finally ready to tackle the man-cave.

“You’ll need to get a bunch of boxes,” Joey said. Duh! We joked about how cleaning out the office would be Bunny’s last laugh on us—he liked to play little jokes; we all did.

One of the best pranks of all time happened last February. Bunny’s cancer, which had been dormant for a short time, kicked into high gear, spreading up his lymph nodes from pelvis to neck within a matter of weeks. He had just completed a second round of radiation, and was about to start his first round of chemo. Joey and Corey still lived in Virginia, and decided to come down for the weekend to surprise him.

It wasn’t easy to surprise Bunny—he was so nosy, he usually figured things out well before the big reveal. For about two weeks, Joey and I plotted and planned. He almost caught us at one point, but I explained away the conversation Joey and I were having. Finally, the big day came: Joey had told Bunny that he and Corey were going to Atlantic City for the weekend, but really, they had flown down to Tampa. Joey had talked about his AC trip that whole week with great enthusiasm, asking Bunny about the places he’d visited there when he was in the Navy. Bunny and I were supposed to be going to AC in a few weeks, ourselves, so Joey promised to be on the lookout for the best new places.

I picked up Joey and Corey (“JoCo”) at the airport in the early afternoon and took them to the Hard Rock, where they would be spending the night. They’d come to our house for the next two nights, after the big surprise. I went back to work and waited for Bunny to come home. He called me about mid-afternoon to tell me that Joey had called from AC and was having a great time.

“Oh! You’ll never guess who’s in town!” I said excitedly. Up to this point, I hadn’t formulated an excuse to get him to the Hard Rock.

“Who?”

“Woodie and Cheryl! I told them we’d have dinner with them, so come straight home.” Then I told him I had another call coming in and had to go.

He had been pleasantly surprised—we hadn’t seen Woodie and Cheryl in a long time. Cheryl was a CRNA—a nurse anesthetist—and she’d been the one who set us up on our first date. Her husband is a retired Air Force pilot (and Vietnam hero) who worked as a CPA until a few years ago. He retired from the Air Force as a Lt. Colonel, but Cheryl didn’t retire from the Air Force Reserves until she outranked him as a full Colonel. I think it was mostly so he’d have to salute her. They are, quite literally, the most accomplished people I’ve ever met, and they’re funny and down-to-earth and a joy to be with. We saw them fairly often when we lived in Atlanta. They travel all the time--I doubt there are many places in the world they haven’t been--so they were a good choice for unexpected people coming to town.

I had about two hours to weave a story about why they were in Tampa. I had to be able to sell whatever I came up with, which would be very difficult. Most of the time, I couldn’t get anything past Bunny—he could almost always tell when I was fibbing. Meanwhile, Joey was arranging with the front desk to give me a key to get up to their room. At the Hard Rock, the elevators are guarded, so you have to show your key to board them.

By the time Bunny got home it was dark, so I rushed him out the door, saying we were late. We jumped into my car and set out, with me driving. I was also thanking my lucky stars for the darkness, because he wouldn’t be able to see my face. I was hoping my voice wouldn’t give anything away.

“How was your day?” I asked innocently.

“Why are Woodie and Cheryl in Tampa?” The nosy rabbit was coming out right away.

“Something Cheryl’s doing at MacDill—a presentation or something.” MacDill is a big Air Force base in Tampa, Cheryl’s always lecturing on something, and before she retired she was one of the top ranking nurses in the Air Force, so this was a pretty easy sell.

“Why aren’t they staying with us?”

“Bunny, you know she’s allergic to cats.” This is 100% true, so again, an easy sell.

“Oh, that’s right. Wait—where are you going? Just go down Dale Mabry!” Bunny had a very irritating habit of always back-seat driving. Side note: he was one of the worst drivers ever. Also, in general, his sense of direction was non-existent, but even he knew that MacDill was a straight shot south, and I was heading toward the interstate.

“They’re not staying at MacDill.” I hadn’t thought ahead for this part, so now I was totally going to have to come up with something on-the-fly.

“Where are they staying?”

“At the Hard Rock.”

“What??!!??” Bunny didn’t like the Hard Rock very much, so the mere mention of it made him suspicious.

“They’re staying at the Hard Rock. Apparently, Woodie is really into Blackjack, so he wanted to stay there so he’d have something to do while Cheryl’s at MacDill.” To this day, I have no idea whether Woodie plays Blackjack, but it wasn’t too far of a leap—he’s an accountant, and he has all kinds of hidden talents at board games, so I was turning him into a semi-pro Blackjack player.

“Really? I didn’t know Woodie played Blackjack.” He was buying it!

“Yeah, we didn’t know he played Scrabble, either, until he handed us our asses.” As it turned out, Woodie used to write crossword puzzles for a newspaper, so he’s a Scrabble savant. That little detail sealed the deal.

We walked through the casino with me pretending to scan the Blackjack tables for Woodie, and Bunny doing it for real. I managed to give him the slip long enough to get the key from the desk clerk, and we rode the elevator up to the room.

He knocked on the door and when Joey opened it, Bunny had a look on his face that I’d rarely seen before: absolute shock. It was priceless! Thank God Corey had the camera ready.

That weekend seems so long ago, but it was only last February. I know the exact date, because I was scanning Bunny’s Facebook page Sunday night and came upon the pictures. I was astonished at how good he looked: no one could have guessed that he’d be gone in less than a year. My heart broke to see him looking so happy, so (outwardly) healthy, so alive.

Tonight, JoCo and the kids came over. While the kids and I were playing, JoCo went into the man-cave to size up the job. Joey was also looking for the power cord for a camera I’d given to Trinity. Suddenly, it was like Bunny’s spirit possessed me: he hated when I touched his stacks, and I could hear JoCo shuffling through stuff.

“Joey, get out of there!” I called. No response. I waited a few minutes before calling out again.

“I’m looking for mumble mumble mumble,” he shouted back. I told him to get out again, an unexplainable anxiety quickly rising in me. More mumbling.

Finally, I got up and went to the doorway.

“Get out. I don’t have the boxes yet!” I said. Corey came out right away, but Joey had two more cents to contribute.

“I think we can just use these,” he said, showing me a plastic storage box.

“I’m not ready for you to be in here!” I replied, tears uncontrollably streaming down my face. Joey was sorry that he’d caused such angst, and even called once they got home to apologize. I still can’t explain why I reacted the way I did. I just know that I’m not ready yet. Which is a shame, because it’s a perfectly good (albeit extremely cluttered) room going to waste.

On the bright side, Corey got in touch with a chess club today to see if they were interested in all the chess paraphernalia. Bunny wanted his chess collection to go to a chess club, and as it turns out, the man Corey spoke with actually knew Bunny. That will be a good way to start dismantling the collections—once the first collection is out the door, the others should be easier. Time will tell.

My Funny Valentine

Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. No worries here. Bunny didn’t believe in Valentine’s Day. He thought it was a holiday--much like Mother’s Day (but not necessarily Father’s Day)—that Hallmark made up to sell cards. Or florists to sell flowers. There was some conspiracy afoot, he was sure.

Bunny was a lot of things, but romantic wasn’t one of them. When Jan’s husband proposed to her, he whisked her away to a quaint B&B and gave her a Valentine box. It was filled with little candy hearts that all read “Marry Me.” Bunny slipped an engagement ring on my finger when I was confined to a hospital bed, recovering from emergency surgery. Not the kind of proposal to write home about.

Julie gets flowers every time she sneezes too hard. Todd surprises her all the time with getaways and thoughtful little gifts. In all the Valentine’s Days from the time we were dating, Bunny gave me flowers exactly once. It was so shocking that I remember it like it was yesterday.

It was 2001, and he came in bearing a dozen red roses. I nearly fainted from shock! Joey nearly fainted from shock when I told him when he called later that evening. Bunny never said why he picked that year, in particular, but I started thinking about it today, and I believe I have the answer. As usual, there’s a backstory.

We moved to Atlanta in 1988. For the next 10 years, as we took turns going to school, we lived in a nice-enough house in a nice-enough, but crowded, neighborhood. I graduated from law school in 1997 and got a job making what, to that point, was the most money in a year than I’d ever made in my life, combined. At the same time, Bunny was climbing his own career ladder to middle management, and he was making the most money he’d ever made up to then. We stayed in that house for another two years, saving our money.

Finally, we started really house-hunting. I say “really,” because Bunny liked to house-hunt just for fun: model homes, open houses, tours of homes—just to look. We weren’t finding any pre-existing homes that we liked, when we stumbled upon a new neighborhood under development. I was only about three miles from our old one, but much less crowded. There were only three lots left, and we spied the perfect one: it was on a little higher ground than the others, and had several ancient, gorgeous oak trees dotted around it.

We went to the model home to see the agent, and the builder was actually there at the time. We looked at several floor plans, and picked one that had what we were looking for: master on main, large laundry room, bonus room upstairs. The builder told us that the floor plan we’d chosen wouldn’t fit on the lot without cutting down at least two of the trees. He suggested an alternative—he had a house that would fit perfectly on the lot, amongst the trees, in another subdivision.

We went over to look at it and fell in love. It had lots of sweeping arches and open spaces, and had everything we wanted and more. It really was our dream house. We signed the contract to build it on our lot that very day.

Over the next several months, we threw ourselves into the task of homebuilding. A lot of people warned us that building a house tends to put a lot of strain on a marriage. In fact, one of the couples who’d just built a home in our new neighborhood split up during construction. Strangely enough, building our dream house was the one thing we never, ever bickered about. We were on the same page in every detail, from the flooring choices to the fixtures. No contractor-grade materials here—we pimped that house out! It had more hardwood in it than any of the other houses in the neighborhood—the most hardwood flooring the builder had ever installed in one of his houses. All the years of penny pinching were finally paying off.

We settled on a Mediterranean theme for the interior. The new house seemed palatial compared with our old one, so we needed more furniture. Plus, some of our old furniture, which we had bought because of low price rather than quality, was on its last legs. We got new appliances, because we were selling the old ones with the old house. We picked out upgraded fixtures to fit the theme. The new house had a lot of windows, so we scoured Atlanta for the best (i.e., least expensive) place to buy window treatments.

Finally, we moved in and started enjoying our dream house. The master bath was like heaven—huge garden tub, separate shower, two sinks, separate throne room. It was quite an improvement from the one-sink-in-the-bedroom house we’d just sold. We entertained friends and family. Once, my entire family came for a long weekend, and we had enough room so that everyone could sleep comfortably and not have to fight for bathroom time. Looking back, it really was too big for just two people. By that time, Joey was on his way out, so the upper floor didn’t see much use. We figured the extra space would come in handy when the grandchildren came along.

Then the unthinkable happened—Bunny got headhunted by a company in Clearwater. He normally started job hunting toward the fall every year, and 2000 was no exception. I could always tell when hunting season had started, because we’d get a sudden surge in voicemails on the home phone. Every once in awhile he’d get an offer that he would actually think about, but usually he just stayed where he was—the same hospital he’d worked at since shortly after we moved to Atlanta. I used to tease him that he was like a dog chasing a car: he wouldn’t know what to do with it once he caught it.

Then finally, Fido—er, Bunny—caught the car, and he knew what to do with it: move to Florida. I didn’t take him too seriously at first, but then he moved down to Clearwater in late September. The plan was, I would stay until the new house—the dream house—sold. But by mid-October, he couldn’t stand being alone anymore, and there were no buyers on the horizon. (It would actually be 11 months before the house sold.) I had to move down over the Thanksgiving holiday. The job he had landed was too good for him to leave, he liked Florida, and the hospital he’d worked at was on the verge of bankruptcy. Plus, we were sick of the traffic in Atlanta, anyway, weren’t we?

After he’d supported me and my goals, how could I say no? Heavy-hearted, I started packing. The big-mouthed movers arrived ahead of me and told Bunny they’d never seen somebody cry so much about leaving a house. They also said they’d never moved so many books from one house. I tearfully left my dream house, car packed with fragile valuables, for the eight hour trip. The fragile valuables included three cats—Lilah, buzzing on Valium (prescribed by her vet, thank you); Tony, needing Valium but sans prescription; and Penelope, who just wanted Valium to drown out the noise Tony was making.

We arrived at our Palm Harbor apartment late at night. Bunny had already arranged the furniture, so when I opened the carrier doors, the cats popped out like they were horses at the Kentucky Derby. Aaaaayyyyyaaaannnnndddd they’re off! Each claimed his or her piece of furniture, happy to be on solid ground again. I wasn’t so eager--I was looking at the contents of a two-story house crammed into a three bedroom apartment.

Between unpacking, trying to get the house sold, finding a job, flying to Louisiana when Mama had her first near-death experience, starting the job, and—oh—studying for the Florida Bar Exam (no reciprocity here for lawyers) at the end of February, I was thoroughly overwhelmed. And miserable. My friends, my haunts and my son were in Atlanta. Many nights, I imagined how easy it would be to pack up the cats (after getting enough Valium for all of them) and go back to our house. Our dream house. The house where we were supposed to grow old and tuck our grandchildren into bed.

And then, that first Florida Valentine’s Day, Bunny came in with his roses. He knew how miserable I was (I certainly didn’t keep it to myself), and either: 1) he figured I was a goner, for sure, if he messed up this Valentine’s Day; or 2) he was making a gesture that went against everything he believed in, because he knew it would make me feel better. Either way, it worked. I settled in and now I couldn’t imagine leaving.

It’s odd how things work out. Even if we’d stayed in Atlanta, in our dream house, we wouldn’t have grown old there together. I’d be sitting alone in a house that was way too big, expecting to find snow on the ground in the morning. And I’d still be fighting that God-awful traffic.

The Treasures of Mi Madre’

After I left Louisiana, my sisters stayed on to go through Mama’s things and get them sorted out. My family has a long history of dividing up heirlooms without drama, and this time was no exception. Mama had left a list allocating certain items to each of us. The larger items—china, silverware, furniture—can stay where they are for now. None of us is concerned that they’ll disappear.

When her mother died, Mama and her brother went to Granny’s house and did the same thing, without the benefit of a list. Granny and her sister had done the same thing years earlier. Unfortunately, they were all more focused on having things come out even than they were on keeping sets of things together. Now, Granny’s side of the family has incomplete sets and our great-aunt Sarita’s side has the other half of the incomplete sets.

My dad was an only child, so there were no siblings to split things with. Aside from that, neither of his parents had come from wealthy families, and even if they had, they had each had at least 10 siblings to divide things among. Even so, for what treasures she did have, Grandma had developed a system long before she died. From as far back as I can remember, if someone admired one of her things, she would put that person’s name on the bottom of the item with freezer (a/k/a masking) tape.

On Friday, I got a small box in the mail with my portion of my mother’s jewelry. Except for one ring, I didn’t know what else the box contained. The aforementioned ring was initially supposed to be Jan’s, but she didn’t want it. I was very happy to get, because it was my great-grandmother’s engagement ring. I already had her wedding band, which is engraved with her wedding date—October 22, 1895. Mama gave me the wedding band several years ago, prior to one of her “last” birthdays, because I had devoted a great deal of time to researching that branch of the family tree. Ironically, when she and Donald married, it was on October 22nd. She didn’t know, until years later, that it was her grandparents’ wedding date.

As I went through the contents of my box, I was struck by different emotions and memories. There was a very tarnished silver cuff bracelet with Mama’s initials from when she still had our dad’s last name. I couldn’t remember seeing it before, but it’s quite pretty. Another unfamiliar piece was a plain silver band with cut-outs. I’m going to polish it and wear it on my pinky. Of the three of us, only Jan inherited my mother’s (and her mother’s) delicate hands and small bone structure. Julie and I, like Daddy’s side of the family, are more “big-boneded,” and while Julie has been able to squeeze certain heirloom rings on from time to time, I never could.

I also got a baby ring, which I think is actually Julie’s, and a locket. Julie and I both had baby rings (why babies needed rings back then, I don’t know), but Jan didn’t. Maybe they had gone out of style by the time she was born. There’s a star sapphire ring, which I remember well—my dad surprised my mom with it when they were married. I can still hear her squeals of delight.

I also now own Mama’s high school class ring, which I can add to my collection of high school class rings (mine, Bunny’s and Daddy’s). I also now have two mother’s rings—one from Mama and one from Grandma. Mother’s rings were quite the thing to have back in the 70s. I vaguely remember when they got them.

When we were little, one of the things we liked doing most was going through our mother’s and grandmothers’ jewelry. It must be a girl thing, because Trinity does the same thing when she comes over. Granny kept jewelry in a big, wooden jewelry box on her dresser. She had lots of costume jewelry and a few valuable pieces. From early on, she had each of us pick our favorites, and left them to us when she died. Grandma kept her everyday pieces in easy reach, and her better pieces in a zippered bank bag, hidden under some lingerie. She also had us pick the pieces we would end up with. Going through the contents of my box the other day, I remembered seeing most of the jewelry from looking through Mama’s jewelry box in the old days.

But the most important items I got are probably, among the lot, the least valuable, money-wise: two nursing pins, one from college, and one from the State of Louisiana. Mama and Grandma were both registered nurses, and they both worked as public health nurses. Since I am the only registered nurse among “the girls,” I got all of Grandma’s nursing pins after she died. I keep them in my safe deposit box, and these will join them there. Unlike the other jewelry, they are truly irreplaceable: they represent the education and career achievements of two of my earliest role models—women who dedicated their lives to helping others.

Now, somebody in the next generation (or the one after that) needs to become a nurse so I’ll have a safe place to leave the pins when I go.

Where are the Flying Cars?

Tonight starts my fifth week as a WiDeaux.   My sister Julie Skyped me this afternoon and we talked for a long while.  I've used Skype since it first came out, and I've always loved it.  The first time I used it was amazing.  It was like the science fiction shows and cartoons we watched as kids--The Jetsons springs to mind--where you can see the person and hear them at the same time.  Now, if only we'd get flying cars!

The first of my family members to adopt Skype was my dad.  He's always been techno-savvy.  Julie's always living in some far-flung place, so she was a fairly early Skyper, too.  My mother, though, was very technophobic.  Every time I called her, I'd tell her how cool it was to see Julie, or what great thing I'd found that week on the Internet.  She simply didn't see the need for any of that stuff--the telephone was just fine, thank you.

Then, a little over a year ago, she was in the hospital.  Again.  Todd was in town, and was on his way to visit her.  I asked him to bring along his laptop so I could Skype Mama.  When she finally realized what I had been talking about all that time, she got excited.  Next thing I knew, she got a "Skype Machine."  It was actually a laptop, but she used it almost exclusively to Skype.  

Once she learned Skype, she didn't want to talk on the phone anymore.  "I want to see you," she'd say.  The strange technology was suddenly a blessing, because she could visit with her widespread family without having to leave her house.  She virtually visited as often as she wanted.  She enjoyed telling Trinity stories about when we girls were little, she talked to Joey and Corey and caught up on their news, and she Skyped me to see how Bunny and I were doing.

As he became increasingly more housebound, Bunny began to really appreciate Skype, as well.  Before Joey and his family moved down here, he could chat them up without leaving the living room.  If I was having a Skype session with someone, he'd chime in until I turned the screen to him.  The person he most liked to talk to, though, was Mama.

He got down in the mouth fairly often, and he knew I wasn't going to facilitate any gloominess.  I couldn't--if I had, he'd have taken a downward spiral long before he did, and he'd have dragged me along with him.  He would reach out to Mama, initially seeking to send some whine her way.  Before long, they'd start trying to out-do each other with their physical ailments.  By the end of their Skype sessions, he'd gotten over his self-pity and was in good spirits.

Last week, as I held Mama's hand in her final earth-bound moments, I told her all the things on my mind and in my heart.  At one point, I asked her to give Bunny a big hug and a kiss for me.   Then I said, "He'll probably meet you right at the gate so he can show you around.  And he's probably driven everybody up there nuts with all his chattering, so they're all gonna be glad to see you."

I shared that story with Julie today, and she agreed that Bunny was probably the one who came to "meet her with the flashlight."   I know it sounds strange, but in a way, I am comforted by my mother's passing.  Now she and Bunny can talk each other's ears off, free of any of the physical restrictions they had down here.  

Now he really is in heaven. 

One is the Loneliest Number

After Bunny died, the thought of dating again was almost repulsive to me. It’s not that we hadn’t talked about it, because we had. Quite a bit. He fully expected I’d be out on the prowl in no time, and thought I’d probably even get married again. I told him he’d be my last husband—who needed that kind of headache? One day I was driving him somewhere with Trinity in the back seat, and he started bickering with me about something.

Finally, he turned to her and said, “Trinity, I’m going to be Nana’s last husband.” She hesitated only a second.

“Yeah, but I’ll bet she’ll have a lot of boyfriends.” My girl! He thought that was hilarious, and told the story many times.

I hadn’t even seriously entertained the thought of dating again until Mama died. For some reason, her death created in me a sense of urgency about getting back into circulation. Maybe it was the lack of intimacy in my life, or just the emptiness I felt, that I didn’t have someone unrelated to me to console me with hugs and kisses. I’m a very demonstrative person—I’ll hug even casual acquaintances—and I miss having someone to hug. I especially missed it during the days between my mother’s death and her burial.

For the first few days of my trip, my nephew, Stephen, stayed with me in hotel suites. Stephen is a 21 year old college student who reminds me a lot of Napoleon Dynamite. We had a good time hanging out together, and he was very conscious of my emotional state. If he saw me crying, he’d ask if I was okay. He’d bring me Kleenex and sit next to me. He’d even hug me, if I told him I needed a hug.

One night, we even visited one of Louisiana’s very finest establishments: a drive-through daiquiri hut. For those of you who’ve never seen one, I’m attaching pictures. As anyone in southern Louisiana of drinking age can tell you, it’s not an open container until you put the straw in it.
 

Once his mother, Julie, arrived on Monday, he went to stay in her hotel room. I missed him, because he really was a good roommate. He didn’t talk my ears off like Bunny used to; he kept pretty much to himself and his computer when we were in the room, but he’d have conversations about anything I wanted to talk about. He’d acquired a bit more sense than when he’d come to stay with us for spring break last year and almost burned down the house making his own breakfast.

By the time I arrived at the funeral home on Tuesday, my alter-ego, Margeaux, had lamented the fact that I was very much alone. I was heartened when I saw one of Mama’s former co-workers, Ms. Berniece, who had married a year before Bunny and I had. She had found herself suddenly widowed, and was quickly back on the market. I remembered well when she started dating again, and was happy for her when she tied the knot. At the time, she must have been in her 60s. Now, here she was 26 years later, with her “new” husband at her side.

Seeing her reminded me of one of my ex-husband’s aunts. Her husband died, and she remarried in record time—I believe less than a year later. Another year or two went by when I met up with her again.

“Well, I killed off another one,” she joked. She was probably working toward husband number three by then

On the other end of the spectrum was Aunt Beverly. She’s pretty, has a good sense of humor, and can out-cook almost anybody. She’s a great catch, or should be. It’s been three years since her husband died. On Tuesday evening, I circled back to her once she’d calmed down. We talked a bit about Bunny’s passing.

“It never gets easier. It never gets better.” she said, tears welling. I offered tons of solutions—traveling, visiting relatives (including me), getting out—but she shot them all down. I went scurrying over to Kelly, somewhat distressed. She assured me that I wouldn’t end up in the lonely boat, but a small part of me remained worried.

How could things not get better? How could I live another 40 years or so (God willing) without things getting better? Impossible! I would have to get over my hesitation and get back to living, sooner rather than later.

Later on, I was emboldened by another conversation, this one with Mr. Lloyd, a friend of Donald’s. Mr. Lloyd was the administrator of the hospital I worked at when I returned home from my first marriage. He promoted me from emergency room nurse to Utilization Manager. At the time I was “only” an LPN, but he saw something in me that led him to take a chance on my abilities, and he empowered me in the process. The position to which he promoted me was the one that would spark my desire to become an attorney. As he offered his condolences on my double loss, he assured me that I would be fine.

“You’re strong. You’re smart. You’ll be okay.” By the time I left that night, my confidence had returned.

I had teased Joey one day about starting to date again, and he had freaked out a bit. I was offended that he thought I’d sequester myself in my house, wearing invisible widow’s weeds, for the rest of my life. I made my case to him so strongly that he begged me to wait at least six weeks. He had no idea that dating again was the farthest thing from my mind.

Staying home alone isn’t going to bring my husband back, and it’s only going to make me increasingly unhappy in the process. Starting to date again is going to take some courage—it’s been a LONG time since I was on the market—but I can do it. I will do it, because Bunny wouldn’t want me to hide myself away from the world. He wouldn’t want me lonely and sad.

But I’m going to wait at least six weeks.

 

 

I Know Why the Irish Drink

Before anyone takes offense, let me point out that I've got plenty of Irish ancestors. If I ever write an autobiography, I thought I Know Why the Irish Drink might make a good title--almost like Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Growing up in a small Louisiana town, funerals and the wakes preceding them were social occasions. When he got the newspaper every morning, the first section my grandfather checked was the obituaries. That way, he knew whether he and my grandmother would be going out that night, often accompanied by one or more grandchildren. If someone’s bad news hadn’t made it into the paper by press time, the local radio station would broadcast it at noon.

We would get dressed up and go to the only funeral home in town. It was usually packed with people. The ritual was almost always the same: going up the walk, we’d briefly acknowledge the visitors who were leaving. To the right just inside the main door, we’d stop to sign the guest book. Then we’d walk through the small lobby to the viewing room, pausing only briefly to speak to the other visitors. .

We’d go up to the casket, glance briefly at the deceased, and bow our heads for a minute or two in silent prayer. The caskets were always open—the only time they weren’t was when the manner of death had disfigured the victim. A closed casket usually caused much consternation among the gatherers, and even though they were disappointed that there was no corpse to comment upon, the speculation about how bad the damage must have been was some small consolation to them.

The deceased’s family was usually gathered in the viewing room, planted in a clutch on the front pew facing the coffin. Less immediate family and friends were scattered in the nine or so pews behind the first one, usually whispering together quietly. After the viewing, we’d stop at the front row to offer our sympathies to the family. If the deceased was a relative or close friend of the family, we’d then step into one of the lesser pews and do some time in the viewing room. If not, we’d go back into the lobby to mingle with the throng there. That was the time when my grandfather would catch up with all the gossip in town.

Since most people in town were Catholic, a rosary was usually said at 7:00 p.m. sharp. During the rosary, everyone packed into the viewing room for prayers, which could take up to an hour. My grandfather, wily as he was, always timed his visits so that we didn’t get caught in the rosary-saying. He was born and raised Catholic, but he wasn’t much for going to church, even if he wasn’t actually in a church.

 

I chose to take a very limited part in my mother’s funeral arrangements for several reasons, chiefly because I was freshly WiDeauxed. A close-following second reason is my rather well-known disdain for the whole funeral industry. Neither of my sisters wanted to be scandalized so early in the grief process. My step-sister Lisa, niece Heather and nephew Stephen went along to make all the arrangements.

My job was to pick out the "family spray." I had never heard that term until a few years ago, when my mother-in-law died. Some distant relative, an ancient crone who'd been sitting an almost buzzard-like watch at the deathbed, approached me to offer what I expected would be condolences. She took my hands into her withered old claws, leaned toward me, and rasped, "You do know about the family spray, don't you?"

I guess the dumbfounded expression gave away the fact that I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. "The spray! The flowers that go on the casket! The family has to get it." Neither she nor any of the other family members offered to help pay for it, and she didn’t even make an appearance a the funeral. At any rate, the florist I had used had been quite helpful, so I visited her again.

She showed me her funeral arrangement books, and I picked certain elements from several—semi-rounded shape, lots of frilly greenery, and fairly compact. It had to have lots of yellow roses, my mother’s favorite flower. One red rose would symbolize my step-father, Donald; four white orchids would represent my sisters and step-sister; six ivory stock flowers for the grandchildren; and three yellow tulips for the great-grandchildren (actually two and one on the way).

 

My only other contribution to the plans was to suggest the portrait to be placed next to the closed casket. My mother and I had sat on her patio after my mother-in-law’s funeral and had drawn up our own funeral preparations. Neither of us wanted to leave relatives totally unguided about our wishes. When Jan and I first arrived at the house, Donald pulled out a fairly recent photo of Mama that his sister had found. While it was a good picture, I knew which one Mama really wanted, and suggested it.

It wasn’t a photo, but a charcoal sketch she’d had done long ago during a visit to Jackson Square (in New Orleans). The artist had done a great job, particularly at capturing her eyes. They were the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen, ringed by a border of dark blue. Those almost-translucent blue eyes were quite outstanding in a house of brown eyed children.

On Tuesday at 3:00 p.m., the immediate family arrived at the funeral home. Those who wanted to view the body were taken to the casket. The only ones who elected to view were Julie and Donald. The rest of us sat chatting with an early arrival in a waiting area. Initially, I hadn’t planned to come to the funeral home at all. I thought it would be too difficult being in such a place so soon after losing Bunny. However, some friends had come to the house on Sunday and, together with Jan, had convinced me that I could handle the viewing, at least. One of my oldest friends, my classmate Kelly, promised she would be with me and would take me outside if things got overwhelming.

Julie and Donald joined us after awhile. The funeral home director asked if we wanted to come into the viewing room. After being assured that the lid was shut, we did. I needed to get away from Donald, or distract him, at least. Donald and my mother married when I was 15, and to say I hadn’t taken to the new member of the family easily is an understatement. He was tall—well over six feet—and quite an intimidating figure back in the day.

Over the years we had grown closer, and he was always a rock of practical advice and information. When I was planning to leave my first husband, it was Donald I called for advice, not my parents. “Liz, life is too short to be unhappy. Come home, and we’ll help you any way we can. I’ll talk to your mama.” They had helped me—with a toddler son in tow--get back on my feet and fly from the nest a second time. I had never seen him cry before Saturday, and now his eyes were red-rimmed and his voice shaky. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been the first to his side to try to comfort him, but now it was just too much for me to handle.

“Let me show you the spray!” I chirped, dashing out of the room. By the time I got to the casket, I had calmed down. I explained the symbolism of the different flowers, and he started crying. He thought she would have loved it.

The portrait had been cleaned and stood on an easel, so I admired on it. He commented that it had been done before he knew Mama, and that brought to mind a story I had once heard from my cousin Paul. At my paternal grandmother’s funeral several years ago, Paul caught site of Mama across the room and smiled wistfully. I began to recount the exchange that followed for Donald.

“I said, I think there’s a story there.”

“He said, ‘I was just remembering the time your dad first brought your mother home to meet the family. We thought she…’” I couldn’t finish, and was dangerously close to a breakdown. Julie picked up the story immediately.

“He said she was the prettiest thing they’d ever seen.”

This was what would become a pattern with my sisters, niece and nephew. They were all protective of me and kept me away from several disasters and most of the more irksome visitors. I also took off my glasses—partly for vanity’s sake, but also because it made it more difficult for me to see people’s faces from more than a few feet away. They could be crying themselves silly, but I wouldn’t know it from across the room.

Donald’s younger sister, my Aunt Beverly, came in and greeted us. Her eyes were watery and she was putting me on edge. Just as I was about to get teary, I saw my Aunt Evelyn and Uncle James enter and stop at the book. I quickly abandoned Beverly for her sister, who was well known for her tough exterior.

I went up and hugged her, as she told me how sorry she was for my recent losses. Then she focused on Mama, and held me at arm’s length. She looked me square in the eyes and sobbed, “I miss her!” That did it—I bolted for the bathroom and let loose with some wailing (or keening, as the Irish say) the likes of which I’d never done before. Ever. Huge sobs wracked my body and at that point I was ready to jump the funeral home ship. I calmed down, took some deep breaths, fixed my make-up and went back out.

I spotted Uncle Jimmy still by the book, and went up to tell him hello. As we embraced, I said, “I’m sorry for running away, it’s just…” I was on the verge of another meltdown. “SSssshhhh…I know. It’s okay.” Just those few words calmed me down. I also, for the most part, stayed out of the viewing room. I was a lobby bird for most of the evening.

Time during a viewing passes vvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrryyyyyy sssssssllllllloooooowwwwlllllyyyy. But I knew there was an end in sight—like my grandfather, I would cut out just before the rosary. Not because I’m averse to praying, but because I knew it would be a time filled with random sobbing from the assemblage. Kelly had taken care of an alternative—she had suggested that we and some of our classmates go to a bar at the casino.

“Yes! An Irish wake!” I’d said. Better than the rosary, and better than being alone.

I saw the first of my classmates to arrive, Tina, and was chatting with her when Kelly came in. Others followed: Cindy, Joel, and Greg. Tina couldn’t come to the bar with us, but it meant a great deal to me that they had come to the wake part as well as the Irish part. As soon as I saw the priest enter, I scrambled toward the back door. I went to my hotel and changed clothes, then took the shuttle over to the casino.

My classmates were waiting for me, and had already started the Irish part. We had a few rounds of drinks and talked about all kinds of things—people in town, people out of town, old days, high school, menopause (hey—we’re approaching 50, and three of us went to nursing school together!) and everything else we could think of.

Then we moved to a restaurant inside the casino, ordered dinner and another round of drinks, and did more talking: lots of boisterous, raunchy, laughing conversation. Some of us (who shall remain nameless) did Patron shots. OK, I did three, but I’m not tattling on the others. I don’t usually drink at all—a rare beer or glass of wine here or there—so I was literally feeling no pain by the time I caught the shuttle back to the hotel.

I had had the best time on one of the worst days in the worst month of my life. My mother, knowing how much I hate to cry, would have heartily approved, and Bunny would have, as well. I fell into bed and was fast asleep in no time, which is an anomaly on any night. When I woke up in the morning, I had a bit of a headache, but it wasn’t anything that Advil couldn’t fix.

As I showered, I reflected on how good I still felt from the night before. I have a habit of talking to myself—Bunny teased me endlessly about it—and today was no exception. He would overhear me and say, “What did you just say to Self?” A few years ago, I’d said, “It’s not Self—it’s Margeaux!” I’d had imaginary friends when I was about five, so he thought this was an amusing extension of that habit.

When I was toweling off, I said to Margeaux, “Now I know why the Irish drink!” “That sounds kind of like “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings!” she answered. We keep each other entertained that way.