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.