My Father's Funeral

My Father’s Funeral

My father went from healthy to dying on a ventilator with his lungs full of water from pneumonia in 7 days with nothing we or the doctors could do.  It was devastating and so unfair.

I got the call from the hospital at 2 AM that he had died.  My wife and I got my sister who lived near us and drove to get my mother.  We all, along with my aunt went to the hospital to see him and make arrangements for his being moved to the funeral parlor.  I took my mother and aunt home to stay with us.

That morning we went to the funeral parlor and arranged for the burial the next day.  My mother and father had planned for this so all we had to do was sign a few documents and notify friends and relatives.

When we got home, my aunt and my mother suggested I take them home, which I refused.  The complaining then turned to who was riding in which limo to the funeral parlor and service.  Since I didn’t care, I let them argue and tried to stay out of it.  Impossible to do, they kept trying to get me involved.

Between their arguing about the limo and arguing about whether they should go home or not I was beginning to get really stressed out.  I took to taking Tums in large quantities.

I finally went into my bedroom and closed the door.  They tried to follow me in the bedroom, supposedly to comfort me but really to continue the “discussion”.

I told them to go away, they were giving me an ulcer.  Their solution was to try to come in and give me Zantac.  I thought I was being chased by the 3 witches from Macbeth; although there were only two of them.  I locked them out.  They didn’t realize they were the cause of the problem.

The next morning the limo’s showed up and we all were driven to the funeral parlor in Delray. 

When we got there, the place was packed with friends of my parents from the condo along with my friends and family.  My father was very popular and everyone came.

The funeral parlor set up a reception room where we could sit prior to the service and people could come to see us.

The condo people lined up to come in and we had to set up a reception line to greet them.  My family and I spaced ourselves around the room so as to be able to speak with everyone.

They started coming in.

Now most of the Condo people were fine, but many of them are kvetchy and combative.  They hated to wait in line and this time was no exception.  They became impatient and started making remarks about how long this was taking.

I was first in line for them to speak with. A woman had just come up to me and was saying how sorry she was about my Dad.

The woman behind her suddenly said “Can’t you move along, you’re taking too much time”.

The woman in front of me turned to her and said, “I’ll take as much time as I want and you can’t stop me”.

The situation only got better from there.  They almost came to blows.

I stood there transfixed at what was happening, kind of like a deer caught in the headlights. I had to do something or this whole day would be a disaster. People in the room had noticed the commotion and were staring.  My sister looked like she would like to come over and smack them.

“Ladies. Ladies,” I said somewhat forcefully, “please don’t fight, this is my father’s funeral and you’re causing a scene”.

It gave them pause and they stopped fighting. They continued down the reception line muttering about each other’s rudeness and what they would do to each other.  At each stop, I kept a leery eye on them afraid their fight would break out anew.  They finally exited the room.  I later found out they were friends.

The rest of the day went as planned. The funeral parlor had never seen so many people at a local funeral.

My mother and aunt returned to my house for the Shiva. 

They remained at my house for two weeks.

I continued eating Tums for the whole time they were there.

God's Big Plan

God’s Big Plan

It was around 1985; my wife announced she didn’t want to take birth control pills anymore.

“So what do you want to do?” I asked innocently.

“What do I what to do?  It’s time you did something.  I’m not having any more operations (she had had an operation on her ovaries and 2 C sections)”!

“Oh, I guess we could use something,” I said.

“No, I have something else in mind” she said. “You know Bob (my brother-in-law) had had a vasectomy and he said it wasn’t too bad.  What about you getting one?”

I probably turned pale, and cringed, but she pressed on.

“We should go and see a urologist, this would be great, and I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt,” she said.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t hurt you,” I replied continuing to cringe.

Not to be dissuaded, she made an appointment for a consult.

We arrived at the doctor’s office and eventually made it in to see the doctor.

“What do you want to do?” the doctor asked me.

“I would like to leave,” I replied.

“No we don’t,” said my wife, “we want to consider a vasectomy”.

“WE???” I said.

“Stop being a baby,’ she retorted, “I’m sure it won’t hurt, right doctor?”

“Well…” he said “you’ll feel a pinch when we inject the Novocain”.

At that point I was picturing this giant needle approaching my private parts.  The doctor must have seen this reaction before and sought to reassure me, but the image of the giant needle remained.

Seeking any excuse, I asked “Is this reversible, what if I want more kids?”

“With who?” my wife asked.  “You're sure not having them with me”.

“Maybe my next wife would want some kids,” I calmly replied.

“So you’ll adopt,” she countered.

The decision was a foregone conclusion.  An appointment was made.

The afternoon before the procedure, we went to the doctor’s office for a final check up.  They took blood and urine tests, everything was fine, I was scheduled for the next afternoon.

The next morning I woke up with a severe urinary infection: pain, blood, the works.

“How did this happen, you were fine last night”, my wife said.

“I don’t know, we’ll have to go to the doctor”.

We arrived at the doctor’s office and I told them what was going on.  They took blood and urine and announced I had developed an infection overnight and we would have to postpone the operation.

“I’ve never seen something develop so fast” the doctor said.

“When should we reschedule?” my wife asked.

“I’ll call them,” I said and we left.

My prayers had been answered, a genuine miracle had occurred.

“This is God’s Will”, I stated to my wife.  “God has decided against this and has other plans for me. I’m not doing this”.

My wife gave me a very skeptical look.  She started to give me all the arguments why we should reschedule; but I kept countering with “God’s Will” How could she argue with “God’s Will”? We never rescheduled.

Perhaps God does have a plan for me.

Captain Hook Comes to the Birthday Pary

Captain Hook Comes to the Birthday Party

My youngest granddaughter was turning three.  Her mother decided to have a themed party of Tinker Bell and Peter Pan characters.  She asked that the kids come as characters and if the parents wanted to come in costume that would be fine too.

My granddaughter loves to play “Peter Pan”.  She is either Peter or Tinkerbell, my wife is Peter or Tinkerbell (depending on which my granddaughter chooses to be) her brother is a lost boy or pirate, and inevitably I am Captain Hook.

Captain Hook is always defeated and thrown into the water to be eaten by the crocodile.  Try as I might, I am never allowed to be anything but Captain Hook.

 

When the invitation came, it was a forgone conclusion that I would get a costume (remember who you are dealing with here).

My wife and I went to the costume shop.

There was a Peter Pan costume there I wanted my wife to get as our granddaughter was going as Tinkerbell.  My wife refused to spend the money (I think it was her desire not to wear green tights), and we proceeded to focus on me.

The first hat we were shown was a perfect “Hook” hat but way too expensive.  I finally picked out a hat, hook and sword.  I wanted to get more, but the "Secretary of the Treasury" said it was too expensive. We paid and left the shop.

The next day, I played golf with my son and we “coincidentally” ate lunch at a diner next to the costume shop. 

I dragged him into the shop and we looked for more items.  

I insisted he get a hat and sword, and since I was already there, I took it as God’s way of saying it’s ok to buy something. 

I looked around for items to improve my costume.  I chose a curled mustache and bright red sash to compliment the already purchased hat, hook and sword.

The big day came.

I attached the moustache with spirit gum purchased at the costume store, put on a long sleeve white shirt, black pants, black shoes, a vest, my sash, sword, hook and hat.  I was a great looking Captain Hook.  I was ready to go.

There was a slight problem.

A couple of the guests coming to the party required special dietary foods.  I was the one to pick up the food.  I figured I would get it on the way.

My wife and I drove to the shopping center and I parked the car.  I got out of the car.  My wife refused to join me.  I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t come with me.  I had taken off the vest, sash, hat and sword, what could be embarrassing?

As I entered the store, people were pointing and the owner was laughing.  Could it be me?

Of course it was me!  The large curling black mustache was an eye catcher.  With my white shirt I looked like part of an old fashioned Barber Shop Quartet.

I quickly explained why I had on the mustache.  Since most of the people there were grandparents they immediately understood.

I purchased the food and returned to the car where my wife was trying to look as if she didn’t know me. 

People stared as we drove past them. It really was quite a spectacular moustache.

We went to my son’s house.

I called my son and told him to open the garage door and meet us outside so my grandkids wouldn’t see me.  We unloaded the car and I got into costume.  I went to the front door.

My son opened the door with my two grandkids in tow.

“Har Har Har” I exclaimed, “It’s me Captain Hook”.

My granddaughter’s eyes grew huge and she backed away.  Not the response I was looking for.  Her little brother didn’t seem afraid and I came in.  She wouldn’t come near me for the rest of the day and kept a wary eye out to see where I was.

As other children came in, some were frightened, some took it in stride (most were under 4).  All the little girls came as Tinkerbell.  The boys didn’t come in costumes but were provided with a hat and blow up sword.  Some of them engaged me in sword fights.

The adults smiled and seemed to appreciate the effort I had put into the costume.  It was disappointing they weren’t in costume.  I had expected a few of them to be in costume.  The saving grace was I did present a dashing figure.

It was hot, and the long sleeves, vest and long pants made it hotter. The mustache was itchy and annoying and had to be reglued twice.  I stuck it out until the cake was cut and pictures taken.

I took off the mustache and vest; gave the hat and sash to a boy; and ate some cake.

Right before we went home, the boy gave me back the hat and sash.  I gave the hat, sash and sword to my daughter-in-law’s sister who had just gotten married.  She had brought a pirate outfit with her but didn’t put it on. I figured she and her new husband could play pirates one night. She said she would save it for Halloween.  Who do you believe?

My wife thought my getting the costume was a waste of time and money since my granddaughter was frightened of me and didn’t seem to care.  

I thought the looks on the people’s faces in the food store was to quote a credit card commercial, “Priceless”.

Uncertainty at the Diplomat

Uncertainty at the Diplomat

We have a friend and former business partner named Bill (last named withheld to protect all concerned), whose last name ends in a vowel.

Bill is an interesting guy.  He is about 10 years older than us, comes from New Jersey and talks like Joe Pesci.  In fact, he and Joe grew up together in Newark.  When I first saw “Goodfellas” I called up Bill and said “Hey Bill, this guy Joe Pesci is imitating how you talk.”  Bill laughed and told me how they used to pal around together.

Bill knows a lot of people with “Bent Noses” and he used to own a hotel in Atlantic City.  Bill always wears a lot of gold jewelry and is nattily dressed. Various “guys” would often visit Bill at his place of business, a travel agency in South Florida.

I once was stopping off at the travel agency to see Bill.  I parked in front and as I got out of the car, a man in a suit was kneeling behind my car taking down my license plate number.  He quickly moved away before I could ask him what was going on.

I went inside and asked Bill if he knew what the guy was doing.

“Oh yeah, he’s an FBI guy,” said Bill.

“FBI!” I said, “What is he doing here?”

“Oh he’s checking on me.  Every once in a while they review an old case I was involved in,” Bill answered.

He proceeded to tell me the story of an infamous case in New Jersey a number of years before.

Bill had had a partner who was trying to scam everyone who he was associated with.  The guy was found cut up into pieces in a 50 gallon drum.  The drum was discovered in a warehouse Bill was an owner of.

The FBI could never prove anything, and Bill claimed he didn’t know who did it.  Besides he was out of town when it occurred.

The FBI Agent in Charge retired and wrote a book about it.

Bill was questioned by a new FBI agent later on and Bill tried to be helpful and give him some answers.  The Agent demanded to know how Bill knew so much if he wasn’t involved.

Bill’s answer was “I read it in your guy’s book”.  They had no answer for that, but still followed Bill around every so often.

One time I was down in Hallandale when I got a phone call from Bill.  He asked if I could stop off at the Diplomat Hotel in Hollywood and pick something up for him.  Since I was only 5 minutes away and it was on my way home, I agreed.

Bill told me to meet a friend of his (John something with a vowel at the end) at the Diplomat.  He said I should use the house phone and go up to the guy’s room and he would give me a package for Bill.  The guy had just flown in from New Jersey.

I arrived at the Diplomat (a very nice Hotel on the Hollywood beach, known for some unsavory connections) and went to valet.  I told the valet who I was there to meet.

His attitude went from somewhat surly to ingratiating.  He assured me there would be no charge and he would leave the car right where I could get it immediately and would personally watch over it.  I thanked him and went inside.

Now, I’m beginning to get a bad feeling about this.  What could be in the package?  Why didn’t Bill get it himself?  How much trouble could I be in?  Was this guy under surveillance?

I used the house phone and spoke to the guy (he talked like Bill) and went up to his room.  A very nice room by the way.  

“Come in, take a load off,” he said, “I’ve got the package here for Bill.  Give me a minute to get it out”.

I was becoming somewhat uneasy and I guess it showed.

He picked up a large paper bag and said “So what do you think is in here?”

“I don’t know, Bill didn’t tell me” I answered.

“It’s bread you mope!  What did you think it was drugs?” he said laughing.

Bill had asked him to get a couple loaves of bread from a particular bakery in Newark.

Feeling both relieved and stupid, I took the “package” and left.

Sure enough, the car was waiting for me and I drove away with a wary eye for an FBI tail.

The Bride Arrests the Groom

The Bride Arrests the Groom

My cousin was getting married. 

She had met a very nice guy and in a short period of time decided to get married.  It was not the first marriage for either of them and they wanted to have a small wedding with family and friends.

They chose a small wedding chapel/catering hall and set a date.

Barbara and I arrived at the hall.   

We saw three cousins we knew, but no one else that looked familiar.   

In fact, the majority of the men there looked kind of frightening.  They looked like drug dealers, gang members and not people I would want to hang around with.

I had never met the groom and was amazed he would have friends like this.  The groom worked as a postal inspector and these people did not look like they worked in the post office.

My other cousins were also giving the other guests a look over.  It was starting to get uncomfortable.

We survived the Cocktail Hour without any fights, gunshots or threats and proceeded to the ceremony.

The ceremony started.

The groom was handsome, the bride was beautiful. The groom stood at the altar with his best man, the bride walked sedately down the aisle to join them. The Justice of the Peace was waiting to begin.

Just as the ceremony was coming to an end, the bride whipped out a pair of handcuffs, clamped them on the groom (yes this actually happened), raised his handcuffed arm in the air and declared: “This is for the guys in the 22^nd Precinct.”

My mouth dropped open as did that of my cousins, and Barbara.  The rest of the guests erupted into applause and laughter.

Turns out all the “frightening looking” guys were police and undercover officers whom the groom worked with.

My cousin knew her impromptu action would be greatly appreciated by them.

We on the other hand, thought at first she had lost her mind.  But as we got the joke, we appreciated her sense of humor on an otherwise solemn occasion.

The rest of the wedding went off uneventfully, and she is happily married as I write this.

I don’t know if she ever used the handcuffs again, that would be too much information.

Don't Get The Stove Dirty

Don’t Get The Stove Dirty

“We need a new stove”, my wife said.

“Why?” I asked, “It works fine and is hardly used.”

“It’s old and dangerous”, she informed me.

“What are you talking about” I asked?

“The pilot light goes out (we have a gas stove) and we could be killed by a gas explosion,” she answered.

“It doesn’t go out unless you pour water on the pilot (which the cleaning lady sometimes does), and even if it does, our sliding glass doors are not leak proof so there is no dangerous build up of gas” I tried to reason with her.

“I smell the gas and it’s dangerous”, she said trying to be logical. “Besides, it’s more than 30 years old and we need a new one”.

“We never use the damn thing.  It’s practically brand new if you consider how often we use it.  You don’t cook, we use the oven maybe 4 times a year, and I don’t even boil water for coffee on it anymore since Ronni (our daughter) got me the one-cup coffee maker.  So why do we need a new stove?” I tried to counter.

On a weekly basis, the stove is used maybe once.

Monday and Wednesday nights we have been eating with my daughter-in-law and the youngest of our grandchildren while my son takes Spanish lessons for his job. Tuesdays and Thursday’s Barbara works with me, so she says she has no time to cook, and Friday, Saturday and Sunday is the weekend and she expects to go out to dinner.  If my math is correct, there are no other days in the week to cook.  Ergo, the pristine condition of our stove.

Barbara kept insisting we needed a new stove because it was dangerous and old.

“It costs too much money and we don’t use the damn thing anyway.  Tell the cleaning lady to be more careful (in my defense the pilot had only been blown out 4 or 5 times with no ill effects, and always caused by the cleaning lady or water from a boiling pot of pasta, the only meal we ever eat at home.  It was quickly relit)".

That argument had no effect.

I resorted to my most logical and effective counter argument, “I don’t want a new stove”

Barbara would continue to bring up the new stove idea over the next few months and I would do my best to ignore her.  I find “selective deafness” to be the key to a good marriage.

We went to visit our daughter and her family.  She has a new almost professional grade gas stove. 

Barbara sought to bolster her argument with support from my daughter and her husband. 

My daughter, probably not wishing to offend her mother agreed with her.  Her husband, having lived with us for several months and knowing the condition of the stove and its use history, initially sided with me.

I’m not sure what prompted him to change his mind (I suspect my daughter threatened him) but he threw his support to Barbara.  A change reminiscent of a certain American Colonial General at West Point.

We returned home and the pleas for a new stove, bolstered by our daughter’s and son-in-law's support continued.

At that point, we received a $1500 rebate from the State of Florida for buying a new energy efficient air conditioner that fall.  It came in the form of an American Express Debit card.

Barbara now made the argument that “we” wouldn’t be paying for the stove, the State of Florida would.  This of course ignores the other USEFUL things we could use the money for.

Barbara was determined, and despite my very logical, objective reasoning, she persisted.

More to shut her up than anything else, I agreed to look at stoves.

I went on the Internet and looked up gas stoves and their rating. 

Armed with some knowledge, we went to the store.

A friend of ours worked at the store and helped to explain the various features available on different models and the manufacturers reputations.

Barbara had now promised to cook more, and to take some cooking lessons (a bald faced lie as it turned out, she says marketing technique)).  In light of that promise, I figured we should get a model with decent features.  I wanted a double oven and one that had a griddle top feature.

We chose a GE Profile.  I won’t tell you the price since it will make you nauseous considering the use it has seen. 

The store had no floor model for it so we picked it out of the catalogue and ordered it, having first checked the measurements listed to see if it would fit in our space.

Two weeks later the stove arrived.

It fit in the space exactly, except for one unforeseen detail.  Our top and bottom drawers would not open.  They hit the handle.  The measurement did not include the handles, which stick out about 2 inches.  In order to open the drawers, we would have to open the oven.

To her credit, Barbara came up with the idea of switching the top and second drawers (we don’t use it often) so the former top drawer would open.

This I know is a stopgap measure, as we constantly forget to use the “second drawer” instead of the new top one.

I feel like the man with the new vest.  Eventually I, like the man with the vest, will have to replace everything to match the new acquisition.  An expensive and messy proposition.

Barbara has been biding her time about it but I know, like the Sword of Damocles,  it’s coming.

Since getting the stove, approximately a month and a half ago, we have used the stove exactly no times.

I view it as an expensive kitchen decoration and people (usually husbands) have been very sympathetic.

The other night I proposed to make French Toast, using the griddle feature.  Of course, the idea of actually using the stove was met with stiff opposition if not downright horror.

“You can’t use the stove, you’ll get it dirty” Barbara said, ignoring the fact that whatever I used would get dirty.

“Why did we buy the stove then?” I asked innocently.

“Not for this, you’ll get it dirty” she retorted.

I rest my case.

Lack of a Sense of Direction is Genetic

Lack of a Sense of Direction is Genetic

Barbara, as I have mentioned before has no sense of direction. 

She never learned to read a map and never pays attention when I drive her places.  As a result, she never knows what direction we are traveling, what street we are on, or how to get back from where we are.  She’s not even sure which way to turn out of the parking lot we just entered an hour ago in order to get home.

With practice, she can find places we go to a lot.  Any place we don’t go to a lot she hasn’t a clue.

I mention this because this lack of directional trait seems to have been passed on to my daughter and her cousin, my niece.

One time, when they were 16 or 17, my daughter and niece left the house to buy bathing suits at a store near the beach.  My daughter was driving and my niece was navigating. 

They managed to find the store (it was a straight ride with no turns) and bought some suits.  Now they were going to come home.

They, like Barbara, hadn’t a clue how to get home.  All that was required was reversing direction and going back the way they came, a straight ride.

They couldn’t figure out how to do that.  

They seemed to go in circles. No matter which way they went, they always seemed to wind up back at the beach near the bathing suit store. 

Like the Israelites wandering the desert, or the Flying Dutchman endlessly sailing the seas, they were doomed to continue their journey.

After a while they called us for directions. 

 

We tried to help them, but they remained in an endless loop of streets for another hour.  They kept turning East when they should have been turning West. 

 

They eventually made it home, but it is the stuff of Family Legend.

My daughter has gotten better, or so she tells me, I don’t think my niece has improved at all.

She is famous for making “U turns” whenever she is going places.  For those of you old enough to remember, the name “Wrong Way Corrigan” comes to mind.

Her mother and father have just returned from visiting with her.  She was driving them around during the visit and had to make numerous U turns to correct her directions.  At one point her dad insisted on taking over the driving as he feared they would never make it to their destination.

My mother was like this as well.  For her driving test she tied different colored ribbons on her hands so she could remember right from left.

One time she and my aunt drove from Delray to my house to stay for the weekend.  They figured out how to drive south to my house with very explicit directions from me.  When it came time to return to Delray I tried to give her directions back, but she insisted she could find the way.

Inevitably she turned right when she should have turned left and wound up in Miami.  It took her hours to get home.

Now that I think of this, perhaps it’s not a genetic thing as much as a gender thing. 

Since I don’t wish to get in trouble with the “Politically Correct” crowd, I will leave it to science to decide.