My 85 year old Dad called me last week all excited about his new "toy" - a webcam. "You have to get one!" he insisted. "When you get one we can Skype each other and then it will be more like a visit than a phone call."
I was silent. Stunned. Six weeks ago my Dad was still struggling with the challenge of sending attachments with his emails. Now he was "Skyping". How could this happen? How could an 85 year old man who still uses Wordperfect have come this far in so short a time? What would I have to do to catch up with him...or could I?
Like many people of my generation, I am technically disabled. Trying to teach me to use features, programs or apps (whatever those are) is a lost cause. You might as well be speaking in tongues. No comprendo baby. This applies to any technology I use, computer, cell phone, GPS gizmo, iPod and almost anything involving hooking something up to the television.
The extent of my technology accomplishments are minimal. I can turn on my TV, I can actually set the DVR to record (although I haven't mastered how to stop it from recording reruns). I can call and receive calls on my cell phone. I recently perfected some arcane form of texting...but I don't think it's the right form. Doesn't matter I guess. I struggle to find the phone's camera function and then to locate the picture after I take it. Eventually I find the picture...but the discovery is always preceeded by a lot of cursing.(The manual doesn't say anything about cursing...how strange) I dropped my phone internet service because I just couldn't figure it out. We have a family GPS. I can follow it's instructions BUT I cannot program it. I also get mad at the GPS voice when she talks to me. Too creepy. She has attitude. It's personal. I believe I have mastered my iPod. I am very proud of this. Just don't ask me to plug it into my car and play it through the radio. My computer skills are a tad above the "basic" level but there are so many things I don't understand and cannot master that I often wish I could start over. It's hard to unlearn bad things.
Have you ever been sick as a dog, gone to the doctor and miraculously been cured in the waiting room? Then you can relate to this: I had a cell phone problem. I couldn't turn the damn thing off. (I pressed and pressed the little red phone icon and nothing happened. I had friends try; they failed. In the end my "fix" was to remove the battery to achieve silence. The first time it happened, I wrote it off as a freak occurrence. But it wasn't. Shutting the cursed thing off wasn't possible. With no desirable options left, I got in my car and drove to the AT&T store. Not looking forward to this visit. I would rather have a root canal without anesthetic than go to the AT&T store.
The sales reps were converged at the back of the store, a single bundle of twenty-somethings hovered around a computer. Two boys, one girl. No grown-ups. I almost turned around and left. But, the girl spotted me. "How can I help you?"she asked. "I can't turn off my phone." I replied. "I've tried everything...I had to remove the battery." She stared at me quizzically and then turned and looked at her cohorts. I don't know if she rolled her eyes, but I am going to assume that she did (They always do). Then she asked me the DUMBEST QUESTION of the day, "Why do you want to turn it off?". Now I just stared at her, hoping she would say something to redeem herself. She didn't. This generation cannot imagine a reason to untether itself from an electronic device! How scary is that?! Anyway, she waited for my answer. "Uh...well people frown on ringing phones in the theatre, at movies, at church (where I never go - I just assume it would be disruptive) maybe even funerals..." "Oh," she answered taking the phone from my hand and touching the same damn red icon that I had touched, pressed, pushed and caressed...and the phone politely shut down. She returned it to me. She was smiling. I wanted to smack her. I didn't.
"You just press here," she explained. "I did," I replied defensively, "and so did a few others..it would not shut down." She again turned to her co-workers (eyerolling???) who were all grinning. She said nothing. "Is there anything else I can help you with, Mam?" she asked. "No," I answered. (That "Mam" thing really got to me...) I turned and left feeling dumb and dumber. Four hours later I tried to turn off the phone and (you guessed it) nothing happened. Over the weeks I studied the problem and figured out that there is an infintessimal spot on the tiny red icon where I have to apply pressure (sort of like the phone equivalent of the "g" spot)...if I don't hit the spot, nothing happens. It doesn't say that in the manual...and she didn't mention it either. Bitch.
I can't get help at home. At least not helpful help. My husband is worse than I am. He's out. I apparently did not teach my son patience and tolerance. No sir. He just doesn't understand WHY I don't get it right away. (Just like he doesn't understand why he doesn't get the money he asks for right away. Proof of life's yin and yang)He instructs me in a shorthand I don't understand, at a pace I can't follow, and with an edge of disgust in his voice. A mighty pleasant experience...mighty pleasant. Being a Boomer in the age of technology just isn't fun.
I fantasize about finding some gentle soul who could/would mentor me. Guide me. And most of all, have patience with me. Alas, this person does not exist - or at least I haven't met him/her. As I see it I fall a little further behind technically everyday. Catching up may never happen. There is a ray of hope though. At the rate my Dad is going he may be my best bet. Maybe I will get a webcam, learn how to Skype and ask Dad to.... Naw....I think I'll just hit the Genius Bar at Apple and order a strong drink instead.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Stocking Up on "Burn My Rump" red
Change happens. (So does s++t but who's keeping track?) It's a constant - like death and taxes - but not as awful. Seasons change. Faces change. Heck, even the change in our pocket has changed over the years. Thankfully, most change is gradual (look at your old photos and watch youself gradually disintegrate...now, that's fun)The worst change is the stuff that happens with no warning. Most of that just sucks.
The ability to handle change and rock 'n roll with the punches has a lot to do with the type of life you've led. When I first moved to the midwest I was stunned to discover people who were still friends with people they'd known in kindergarten! Friends they'd had for life. As a transplated East Coaster, the concept of living a consistent and fairly predictable life astounded me. (I was also jealous)I had not lived that life. The only constant I'd ever experienced was chaos and change. They were my friends. I was comfortable with them. My lifelong friends are named Anxiety and Uncertainty. But, meeting actual (as opposed to fictional) people who had lived in the same town (often in the same house)kept the same parents and the same lifestyle forever...well that was as foreign as wearing a Birka and being subserviant to men...simply not gonna happen to me.
I am comfortable with most change. I expect it. I get nervous when things stay the same too long. The longer things are steady and even, the more anxious I become. But some change is even too much for me. There are just certain things that I rely on or expect to remain a constant. When those shift and wake up my inner cortisol (the stress hormone) then you don't want to be anywhere near me.
Here's a great example: I cannot recall a time in my life when I wasn't consuming large quantities of Coke (the brown liquid, not the white powder). Sure it rotted my teeth and maybe packed on the pounds but I was dedicated and loyal and addicted. Because of me my dentist sent his kids to college and got his wife new boobs. This was a workable and symbiotic relationship. Then some jerk at Coke's headquarters, possibly threatened by the surge in Pepsi consumption (I'd rather drink pee), decided to ditch the old recipe and introduce "New Coke". For Coca Cola aficionados this was a sacrilege, a travesty, and a big freaking FU to long time customers with rotted teeth and flabby thighs.
I, personally, went ballistic. I wrote letters and made calls incessantly. In response to my tirade, the wise fools at Coke sent me coupons for new Coke! Infuriated, I maintained my letter writing campaign, returned the coupons (what were they thinking?) and began to do what any red-blooded American would do - I hoarded.
I scoured the stores, packed carton after carton of old Coke into my car. I built a Coke wall in my basement. Friends contributed, as did family. I had no "master plan". Let's face it, when my stash was gone I would be screwed. I drank the basement Coke judiciously. One a day...savored like an expensive and rare wine. I did not share. Want Coke? Get your own. In rather short time the Big Guns at Coke saw the error of their ways and returned to the old formula. Of course, I took personal credit for this.
Another change you can always count on dwells in the realm of makeup. To keep us buying and trying, the cosmetic companies wait until a shade or a product is doing well and then they drop it. Gone. Yep, you can stock up but face it, when your wall of Babycake Orange or Burn My Rump Red is gone you go back to the drawing board. Over the years I have waved bye bye to many great lipstick and foundation shades. When a product like this is discontinued, you are forced back to the department store to face those overly made up hags, dressed in black, who lurk behind the counter. I despise those women. Never had an encounter with anyone behind the makeup counter with whom I would like to have lunch.
A few years ago, while in Vegas, I stopped at Valhalla, or as you know it, Sephora. Sephora is a woman's paradise. Aisle after aisle of cosmetics, no one breathing down your neck, and the ability to try on anything and everything in the store - without pressure. I don't know who "Sephora" is, but I love her and I would like to have her baby. On this particular day my shopping reverie was interrupted by a young man wearing extreme makeup. (It's Vegas, remember) It's odd to be approached by a sales person at a Sephora store, but this guy seemed unusually exhuberant - and very made-up. He was there to demonstrate a new line. Would I like to have my makeup done? Uh, YEA! As he proceeded to scrape the existing products off my face he must have felt an overwhelming need to bond with me. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, "I am a drag queen at night.I know all about makeup." OK.... That's nice. Thanks for sharing. "Then get to it!" I replied in my cheeriest voice...and he did.
Now, I love makeup and I love looking good. Finding the right products at my age isn't easy. It's a challenge. Therefore I should have known, just by looking at HIS makeup, that this might not be a good thing. But, when in Vegas...
He started. He layered moisturizer, then primer, then mixed 2 shades of foundation (which he declared were a perfect match for my skin tone when combined). Then came the bronzer (to give me contours cause I guess my natural ones weren't good enough)and then blush and finally a powder to "set" all the other layers...maybe to keep them from falling off my face. I was beginning to feel a little heavy in the face...but his face was beaming! "Oh, you are looking gooood.." he exclaimed. Next he applied some outrageous green eyeshadow, dark black eyeliner, and a deep green mascara. Feeling like a freshly iced cake, I opened my mouth ever so slightly so he could brush on a pale shade of pink (PINK! I hadn't worn pink lipstick since 7th grade) He stepped back to admire his work. I glanced at a salesperson who'd been observing, she grimaced...And then he handed me the mirror. "What do you think!?" he asked. I was, probably for the first time ever, dumbstruck. I looked like him. I looked like a drag queen. I could probably walk down to the nearest casino and get a job as a showgirl (well, maybe not). I was ready to go onstage!! "Wow," I said, "that's really interesting...I look so...so..different..." I managed to say. "YES! You do look great," he declared and stepped back to admire me yet again.
He did not try to sell me the products but he did hand me a list of everything he'd used. Had I purchased it, I would have been $226 lighter in my wallet.Unsure what to do next,not wanting to offend him, and eager to get to the nearest bathroom to undo the new me, I actually bought the lipstick. I never used it. I still have it. They don't make it anymore.
The ability to handle change and rock 'n roll with the punches has a lot to do with the type of life you've led. When I first moved to the midwest I was stunned to discover people who were still friends with people they'd known in kindergarten! Friends they'd had for life. As a transplated East Coaster, the concept of living a consistent and fairly predictable life astounded me. (I was also jealous)I had not lived that life. The only constant I'd ever experienced was chaos and change. They were my friends. I was comfortable with them. My lifelong friends are named Anxiety and Uncertainty. But, meeting actual (as opposed to fictional) people who had lived in the same town (often in the same house)kept the same parents and the same lifestyle forever...well that was as foreign as wearing a Birka and being subserviant to men...simply not gonna happen to me.
I am comfortable with most change. I expect it. I get nervous when things stay the same too long. The longer things are steady and even, the more anxious I become. But some change is even too much for me. There are just certain things that I rely on or expect to remain a constant. When those shift and wake up my inner cortisol (the stress hormone) then you don't want to be anywhere near me.
Here's a great example: I cannot recall a time in my life when I wasn't consuming large quantities of Coke (the brown liquid, not the white powder). Sure it rotted my teeth and maybe packed on the pounds but I was dedicated and loyal and addicted. Because of me my dentist sent his kids to college and got his wife new boobs. This was a workable and symbiotic relationship. Then some jerk at Coke's headquarters, possibly threatened by the surge in Pepsi consumption (I'd rather drink pee), decided to ditch the old recipe and introduce "New Coke". For Coca Cola aficionados this was a sacrilege, a travesty, and a big freaking FU to long time customers with rotted teeth and flabby thighs.
I, personally, went ballistic. I wrote letters and made calls incessantly. In response to my tirade, the wise fools at Coke sent me coupons for new Coke! Infuriated, I maintained my letter writing campaign, returned the coupons (what were they thinking?) and began to do what any red-blooded American would do - I hoarded.
I scoured the stores, packed carton after carton of old Coke into my car. I built a Coke wall in my basement. Friends contributed, as did family. I had no "master plan". Let's face it, when my stash was gone I would be screwed. I drank the basement Coke judiciously. One a day...savored like an expensive and rare wine. I did not share. Want Coke? Get your own. In rather short time the Big Guns at Coke saw the error of their ways and returned to the old formula. Of course, I took personal credit for this.
Another change you can always count on dwells in the realm of makeup. To keep us buying and trying, the cosmetic companies wait until a shade or a product is doing well and then they drop it. Gone. Yep, you can stock up but face it, when your wall of Babycake Orange or Burn My Rump Red is gone you go back to the drawing board. Over the years I have waved bye bye to many great lipstick and foundation shades. When a product like this is discontinued, you are forced back to the department store to face those overly made up hags, dressed in black, who lurk behind the counter. I despise those women. Never had an encounter with anyone behind the makeup counter with whom I would like to have lunch.
A few years ago, while in Vegas, I stopped at Valhalla, or as you know it, Sephora. Sephora is a woman's paradise. Aisle after aisle of cosmetics, no one breathing down your neck, and the ability to try on anything and everything in the store - without pressure. I don't know who "Sephora" is, but I love her and I would like to have her baby. On this particular day my shopping reverie was interrupted by a young man wearing extreme makeup. (It's Vegas, remember) It's odd to be approached by a sales person at a Sephora store, but this guy seemed unusually exhuberant - and very made-up. He was there to demonstrate a new line. Would I like to have my makeup done? Uh, YEA! As he proceeded to scrape the existing products off my face he must have felt an overwhelming need to bond with me. He took my hand, looked into my eyes and said, "I am a drag queen at night.I know all about makeup." OK.... That's nice. Thanks for sharing. "Then get to it!" I replied in my cheeriest voice...and he did.
Now, I love makeup and I love looking good. Finding the right products at my age isn't easy. It's a challenge. Therefore I should have known, just by looking at HIS makeup, that this might not be a good thing. But, when in Vegas...
He started. He layered moisturizer, then primer, then mixed 2 shades of foundation (which he declared were a perfect match for my skin tone when combined). Then came the bronzer (to give me contours cause I guess my natural ones weren't good enough)and then blush and finally a powder to "set" all the other layers...maybe to keep them from falling off my face. I was beginning to feel a little heavy in the face...but his face was beaming! "Oh, you are looking gooood.." he exclaimed. Next he applied some outrageous green eyeshadow, dark black eyeliner, and a deep green mascara. Feeling like a freshly iced cake, I opened my mouth ever so slightly so he could brush on a pale shade of pink (PINK! I hadn't worn pink lipstick since 7th grade) He stepped back to admire his work. I glanced at a salesperson who'd been observing, she grimaced...And then he handed me the mirror. "What do you think!?" he asked. I was, probably for the first time ever, dumbstruck. I looked like him. I looked like a drag queen. I could probably walk down to the nearest casino and get a job as a showgirl (well, maybe not). I was ready to go onstage!! "Wow," I said, "that's really interesting...I look so...so..different..." I managed to say. "YES! You do look great," he declared and stepped back to admire me yet again.
He did not try to sell me the products but he did hand me a list of everything he'd used. Had I purchased it, I would have been $226 lighter in my wallet.Unsure what to do next,not wanting to offend him, and eager to get to the nearest bathroom to undo the new me, I actually bought the lipstick. I never used it. I still have it. They don't make it anymore.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Airports, Bar Stools and Epitaphs
Everyone has stories. Some are personal, some can be shared. Some are told and retold over eggnog and chili; others are passed down through generations, changing slightly with each telling. And some are so outrageous that they need to be shared with the world because they are too good to keep within the confines of family and friends. This is one of those stories.
My sister was born in 1956. The first child of my mother and her new husband, she was destined (or so they hoped) to be the golden child. At 9, I was slightly less than thrilled at her arrival. I had just been inducted into this "new family" and I hadn't quite found my place. But that didn't matter. She was here and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it. (Although I did have evil fantasies about getting rid of her. As it turns out I probably should have. I'd be out of jail by now.)
To put it mildly, she was a wild child. Almost from the beginning. I remember my Mom telling me about a time when a woman approached her on the street, looked at my sister in her carriage, and said. "That child will bring you nothing but grief." Nice. (I would have left the carriage and run but then I'm not my mother). Mom wrote the woman off as nuts, but often recounted the incidentlater when the prediction came true.
At the age of two my sister fell over the back of a step chair that she used (that I had given her.) to help reach the bathroom sink. She didn't lose consciousness. Her chin was cut. The back of the step/chair smacked her in the solar plexus but she seemed fine. (Remember, in those days we weren't as frantic about every little thing....) Several weeks later Mom noticed that my sister was acting strangely. She would be playing and suddenly "freeze", her eyes would glass over, and she would make little grunting noises. Then as suddenly as it came on, it would end. It grew worse. And worse. Finally they took her to a doctor, who send her to another doctor and another. Five spinal taps later they diagnosed her with a mild form of epilepsy...the little freezing incidents were seizures. They prescribed a cocktail of Phenobarbital and Dilantin and unwittingly began her life of drugs.
The seizures affected everything - not the least of which was her behavior. She grew wilder. She was kicked out of public school and later out of private school. She appeared to have no impulse control, no judgement and no remorse. If there was a way to get into trouble or make trouble, she found it. Life was hell for everyone.
By the time she was 17, she had had 6 abortions, used every drug available, slept with anything and anyone who looked at her,dropped out of school,run away, gotten a few kinds of VD - and at 18 she had a baby. My parents raised him.
We used to think that when she got older she would calm down. But she didn't . Maybe she couldn't. She did have a few periods of what we would call normal, but they never lasted. She married twice and gave birth to another child. When that child was 5, she ran away with a Mexican migrant worker she had known for a few hours and vanished for a year. She did drugs, sold drugs,drank incessantly, lived in tents in Miami and mud huts in Mexico. Drinking and drugs sustained her. Once in a while she remembered she was a mother.
In the last years of her life, with her son grown and her eleven year old daughter living with friends, she began her final downward thrust. She hated me, but would call when she needed to talk, or when she wanted to remind me how much she hated me, or needed money. She was institutionalized twice and jailed a few more times. When things got really bad I contacted her probation officer for help. An arrest warrant was out. she ran. No one knew where she was. (Except my aunt and she wasn't talking).
I got the call one Spring morning. It was my aunt, crying. "Your sister is sick. the doctor needs to talk to a close family member." Now, I was hardly what you'd call 'close' but I knew where the 'closer" people were. "What doctor? Where is she?" "In Buffalo," my aunt replied, "She and BoBo (or Jellyroll or Bizquik) have been there for weeks. But she's sick and he (Jellyroll, or Bizquick or whatever) can't sign any papers.
I called the doctor. My sister was dying. Cirrosis and other organ failures.
I called my nephew, her son. He, along with my Dad (my Mom had passed away) and my brother arranged to fly to Buffalo. They arrived an hour too late. She was already dead. At 48...from drugs and alcohol. Party-on. They decided to have her cremated and so they waited a few days in Buffalo until she was ready to travel. My Dad said there is not much to do in Buffalo once you've seen Niagara Falls. They did what they could.
Eventually the ashes were ready (ready? did they have to cool down?) and she could fly "home". My nephew, brother and father arrived at the airport to await their flight. They waited quite awhile. Eventually they got hungry. "Let's go eat in the bar." my nephew suggested..."It's close and we can hear the flights being called." So they did.
They sat on bar stools, had drinks and sandwiches. Eventually the flight was ready and they boarded their plane. Everyone was silent. There wasn't much to say. It was sad...but at other levels it was a relief. I guess. My nephew had a window seat. My Dad, an aisle. Mmy brother had taken a different plane). Between them sat an elderly African American woman reading her Bible. The plane taxied and took off. And then, with a look of sheer horror on his face my Dad yelled out to my nephew , "OH my GOD I left your mother under the bar stool!!!"
The woman in the middle seat yelled out 'Lord have mercy!!"
"Are you sure?" my nephew asked.
"Oh my God," replied my Dad, "yes she's in a bag under the stool in the bar!"
"Dear Jesus!" cried the lady in the middle seat.
My Dad flagged down the Flight Attendant. "I left my daughter under the bar stool in the airport restaurant. I have to get her back!" he explained.
"Lord, Lord!!" said the lady in the middle seat.
"You left your daughter under a bar stool?" the flight attendant asked, confused.
"Her ashes," Dad explained, "I left her ashes under the bar stool."
By this time my nephew is laughing so hard he is unable to help. The lady in the middle seat is proclaiming the Lord, and my Dad is starting to crack up.
The irony of my sister's plight was lost on no one. What more fitting a final resting place could there be for her than under a bar stool.?
The airline was able to contact the restaurant, the ashes were found and placed on a later flight. They now sit next to my Mother's ashes on a shelf in my Dad's bedroom. (I won't talk about the urn, I made it, it's a hoot!)
I often think about how my sister would have laughed and laughed at this story. In some ways (but not many ways), I'm sorry she wasn't around to enjoy it with us. We tell this story as often as we can. I have had requests from friends to tell this story. It's a good one, you can't deny that.
My sister was born in 1956. The first child of my mother and her new husband, she was destined (or so they hoped) to be the golden child. At 9, I was slightly less than thrilled at her arrival. I had just been inducted into this "new family" and I hadn't quite found my place. But that didn't matter. She was here and there wasn't a darn thing I could do about it. (Although I did have evil fantasies about getting rid of her. As it turns out I probably should have. I'd be out of jail by now.)
To put it mildly, she was a wild child. Almost from the beginning. I remember my Mom telling me about a time when a woman approached her on the street, looked at my sister in her carriage, and said. "That child will bring you nothing but grief." Nice. (I would have left the carriage and run but then I'm not my mother). Mom wrote the woman off as nuts, but often recounted the incidentlater when the prediction came true.
At the age of two my sister fell over the back of a step chair that she used (that I had given her.) to help reach the bathroom sink. She didn't lose consciousness. Her chin was cut. The back of the step/chair smacked her in the solar plexus but she seemed fine. (Remember, in those days we weren't as frantic about every little thing....) Several weeks later Mom noticed that my sister was acting strangely. She would be playing and suddenly "freeze", her eyes would glass over, and she would make little grunting noises. Then as suddenly as it came on, it would end. It grew worse. And worse. Finally they took her to a doctor, who send her to another doctor and another. Five spinal taps later they diagnosed her with a mild form of epilepsy...the little freezing incidents were seizures. They prescribed a cocktail of Phenobarbital and Dilantin and unwittingly began her life of drugs.
The seizures affected everything - not the least of which was her behavior. She grew wilder. She was kicked out of public school and later out of private school. She appeared to have no impulse control, no judgement and no remorse. If there was a way to get into trouble or make trouble, she found it. Life was hell for everyone.
By the time she was 17, she had had 6 abortions, used every drug available, slept with anything and anyone who looked at her,dropped out of school,run away, gotten a few kinds of VD - and at 18 she had a baby. My parents raised him.
We used to think that when she got older she would calm down. But she didn't . Maybe she couldn't. She did have a few periods of what we would call normal, but they never lasted. She married twice and gave birth to another child. When that child was 5, she ran away with a Mexican migrant worker she had known for a few hours and vanished for a year. She did drugs, sold drugs,drank incessantly, lived in tents in Miami and mud huts in Mexico. Drinking and drugs sustained her. Once in a while she remembered she was a mother.
In the last years of her life, with her son grown and her eleven year old daughter living with friends, she began her final downward thrust. She hated me, but would call when she needed to talk, or when she wanted to remind me how much she hated me, or needed money. She was institutionalized twice and jailed a few more times. When things got really bad I contacted her probation officer for help. An arrest warrant was out. she ran. No one knew where she was. (Except my aunt and she wasn't talking).
I got the call one Spring morning. It was my aunt, crying. "Your sister is sick. the doctor needs to talk to a close family member." Now, I was hardly what you'd call 'close' but I knew where the 'closer" people were. "What doctor? Where is she?" "In Buffalo," my aunt replied, "She and BoBo (or Jellyroll or Bizquik) have been there for weeks. But she's sick and he (Jellyroll, or Bizquick or whatever) can't sign any papers.
I called the doctor. My sister was dying. Cirrosis and other organ failures.
I called my nephew, her son. He, along with my Dad (my Mom had passed away) and my brother arranged to fly to Buffalo. They arrived an hour too late. She was already dead. At 48...from drugs and alcohol. Party-on. They decided to have her cremated and so they waited a few days in Buffalo until she was ready to travel. My Dad said there is not much to do in Buffalo once you've seen Niagara Falls. They did what they could.
Eventually the ashes were ready (ready? did they have to cool down?) and she could fly "home". My nephew, brother and father arrived at the airport to await their flight. They waited quite awhile. Eventually they got hungry. "Let's go eat in the bar." my nephew suggested..."It's close and we can hear the flights being called." So they did.
They sat on bar stools, had drinks and sandwiches. Eventually the flight was ready and they boarded their plane. Everyone was silent. There wasn't much to say. It was sad...but at other levels it was a relief. I guess. My nephew had a window seat. My Dad, an aisle. Mmy brother had taken a different plane). Between them sat an elderly African American woman reading her Bible. The plane taxied and took off. And then, with a look of sheer horror on his face my Dad yelled out to my nephew , "OH my GOD I left your mother under the bar stool!!!"
The woman in the middle seat yelled out 'Lord have mercy!!"
"Are you sure?" my nephew asked.
"Oh my God," replied my Dad, "yes she's in a bag under the stool in the bar!"
"Dear Jesus!" cried the lady in the middle seat.
My Dad flagged down the Flight Attendant. "I left my daughter under the bar stool in the airport restaurant. I have to get her back!" he explained.
"Lord, Lord!!" said the lady in the middle seat.
"You left your daughter under a bar stool?" the flight attendant asked, confused.
"Her ashes," Dad explained, "I left her ashes under the bar stool."
By this time my nephew is laughing so hard he is unable to help. The lady in the middle seat is proclaiming the Lord, and my Dad is starting to crack up.
The irony of my sister's plight was lost on no one. What more fitting a final resting place could there be for her than under a bar stool.?
The airline was able to contact the restaurant, the ashes were found and placed on a later flight. They now sit next to my Mother's ashes on a shelf in my Dad's bedroom. (I won't talk about the urn, I made it, it's a hoot!)
I often think about how my sister would have laughed and laughed at this story. In some ways (but not many ways), I'm sorry she wasn't around to enjoy it with us. We tell this story as often as we can. I have had requests from friends to tell this story. It's a good one, you can't deny that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)