On My Last Leg - Part Deux

“Just because you're miserable doesn't mean you can't enjoy your life.” ~Annette Goodheart



It was my father-in-law's wish to be cremated and his ashes spread over the Chesapeake Bay. His wife decided on a compromise – after all in marriage that is required. Half of him was kept for the Bay and the other half was entombed in a cemetery so that there would be a place to visit, and for her to go upon her death.



Nearly a week following his death, after the memorial service and prior to the Irish Wake at their home in Virginia Beach, Keith and I went to the funeral home to acquire the ashes. We pulled up, still in a haze, and went inside. Keith met the receptionist with a smile and stated "Hi my name is Keith Mahone and I'm here to pick up my father." The woman appeared a little puzzled and looked around to see if there was indeed some waiting to be picked up. She didn't say anything and then Keith, understanding the misunderstanding, spoke up stating "He's been cremated" the response to which was a lot of uncomfortable bowing and apologizing and then they returned with a small cardboard box and a red velvet bag with a gold drawstring - which Keith has always affectionately referred to as the Crown Royal bag - all the drinkers will get that. All in all a fairly strange interaction that was nothing less than hilarious to discuss the entire drive from Richmond to the beach – and of course to recount to any and all who would listen.



That weekend we paid our final respects in the way that you do following the passing of a close loved one. We have continued to pay respect to his memory everyday since then by talking about him, remembering him to our children, and honoring the legacy that he left behind. But on that weekend it was a raw party of emotions. There really wasn't much crying though. It was as if his sons and his wife were beyond crying. So we walked on the beach, told stories, drank his best wine, and may, or may not, have placed his ashes in the bay (I plead the 5th).



When the party at the beach was done we made our way up I64 to Richmond and the cemetery. It was meant only for the immediate family. So Keith and I, his brother and sister-in-law, step-mother, and Keith's aunt made our way to the place where the rest of the ashes would be laid to rest. The ashes were placed in a lovely marble box which Keith and his brother lovingly compared to a car battery as it matched one in size and weight. No one knew what to do that day. They placed the box on a bench and put the bag of ashes inside. We all stood there looking at it for a moment. As much as everyone tried to be somber and as much as we were all filled with the finality of the events taking place - the boys couldn't stop cracking wise. They decided that they should carry the tiny box together the three and a half feet from the bench to the space where it would be sealed - as if they were pallbearers.



We could not control our giggles at the ridiculousness of this sight. Two 6' tall grown men in their 30's dressed the part in their dark suits and ties, sweating in the Indian summer of mid-September delicately carrying their father's marble box of ashes to its final resting place in a wall. The boys' aunt was clearly annoyed at our complete disregard for the seriousness of the occasion. She simply didn't understand and we could never have explained. We clearly were bucking all of her traditional funeral expectations, a point that was clearly illustrated when she very sincerely asked “Where is Lanny?” to which we replied “He’s in the box.” She huffed a few more times but voiced no more complaints. But really how surprised could she be when less than a week prior - the fiancé of the dearly departed’s younger son had presided over the memorial service because she used to be an actress. It was at that moment she should have realized all bets were off.



When “it” was done and there were no more plans to be made, no more “on the 11th day of September in the year 2002 our father and husband was carried away on a golden chariot into the heavens to meet his…”, no more wine or parties to dull the quiet left in his wake we all went out for ice cream. I’m pretty sure he would have approved.



I realize that everyone has their own way of mourning, approaching anguish, and honoring their moments of despair. My grandparent’s battle with ill health and my father-in-law’s passing – in addition to so many other points in my life and my life with my husband – were, I feel, opportunities to make something good out of the senseless and confusing lot sometimes doled out by the universe.



Some may feel that this approach is disrespectful and in some cases they may be right but in these cases everyone was laughing together - we weren’t poking fun at any person or circumstance that they wouldn’t have made light of themselves.



My father-in-law’s passing was as tragic and unexpected as nearly anything that has occurred in our lives. We would gladly hand over all the world’s riches to have him here. Yet, the experience of his death brought everyone closer because of their willingness to cry, and yes laugh together; to share in the real emotions of things that make us know we are alive. I thank my grandparents for instilling in me the gift of humor and my father-in-law for doing the same – whether he meant to or not – for his son. And I thank the universe for making sure that we found each other.



"If you don't like something change it; if you can't change it, change the way you think about it." ~Mary Engelbreit

A Mother's Love - The Produce Story

A mother's love is a strange and wonderous thing. It is something one can never fully understand until they become a mom themselves. In the name of love and concern for their children's wellbeing parents lose all sense of what is sane and reasonable...if they're good parents of course.

In the year 2000 after years of talking about it I decided to move to New York City. But in my super flakey fashion I just packed a bag, some shoes, my make-up, and a papazan chair cushion and left. I serendipitously secured a job and I was on my way. A friend offered up her floor until I could get settled and that's how it all started. Practically overnight, I had a whole new life.

After almost a month on the floor I found an apartment with some friends. I called my parents excited to share the news and they were immediately making plans to get my stuff out of the house and up to me. Early one Sunday morning my family packed up a Uhaul and drove my stuff to my new apartment. They dropped it all off, ate some pizza, turned around and drove right back to Virginia.

I spent the day and night unpacking. The next morning I went to work as usual. When I came home one of my roommates said that my mother had called and she sounded extremly upset and that I should call her immediately. Now this was not surprising to me because you see my mother always sounded upset when she was on the phone. She would answer it as if she was on fire "HELLO!" to which the person on the other end would say "Are you ok?" and she would respond "Yes, why?" confused by the nature of the question.

So I didn't rush to call her back because I'd been there before. I did eventually call her that night and I was surprised to find that she really was upset. In a hysterical, frantic, and very high pitched voice she said "Erin, I realized when I got home last night that I left behind this entire cooler filled with produce that I bought you before we left." I waited a beat making sure I'd heard correctly.

slowly, and a little confused I replied "It's ok mom, they have produce here"

"But I bought all this for you! Your stepfather has a client going back to Italy tomorrow. She will fly from Richmond and layover at La Guardia. She has agreed to bring the produce with her all you have to do is meet her at the airport to pick it up! Can you do that?"

again, confused "Drive over an hour to the airport to pick up produce when there's a Whole Foods a few blocks away?"

"Uh-huh"

"No"

"Oh..."

"REALLY!!!" I thought to myself. "This sounds reasonable to you?" Also to myself.

"No Mom. I think it'll be ok. Really. We have perfectly good supermarkets up here. Don't worry."

She started to cry. "Blbblblblbl"

"I love you too. I have to go now."

"Bblblblbl."

I hung up. At equal levels I was confused, hysterical laughing, and irritated. I wasn't a mom yet and clearly didn't understand. In my mind, she was just simply insane; now let's not downplay the crazy - for it is one of her most charming qualities - but now as a mom of three myself with my own brand of crazy, I totally get it.

Life is messy and motherhood follows that model. We aren't perfect - no matter how hard we try to be. We often make mountains out of molehills like obsessing over produce when really we're just trying to say "I want to make sure you have everything you need." My mom reached the point where she couldn't do that anymore. I had grown up and she was trying to figure out what that meant for us - together, and as individuals. What do you do when there's nothing you can do? Cry over produce, of course.

Happy Mother's Day to everyone who's ever cried and smiled over produce, first words, recitals, lost teeth, first days of school, and baseball games, and to all those who will.

"Suddenly he knew what was so special about mothers. She looked at him smiling, and said, "I'll love you to the ends of the universe."
~Berkley Breathed - Mars Needs Moms

For All Eternity

At 65 years old my grandmother lost her leg. After years of poor health, morbid obesity, diabetes, quadruple bipass surgery, high blood pressure, and heart disease a tiny cut to a toe resulted in the loss of an entire leg. She spent what felt like an eternity on death's door, weeks in the hospital. She developed bed sores that were indescribable, floated in and out of consciousness, struggled, fought, and ultimately recovered miraculously.

According to Jewish law when a person undergoes amputation the severed appendage must be buried. So the arrangements were made and her leg was laid to rest in the plot that had been purchased for she and my grandfather years before.

The following year, on the day of my grandfather's (Zayde) funeral he was placed above the buried leg. He had suffered a whirlwind battle with cancer, decades of emphazema, multiple heart attacks, and a lifetime battle with schizophrenia. On that day, after the services at the funeral home and the cemetary I sat in the car with my grandmother - Bubbe - his wife of 47 years. We rode in silence for awhile maybe reflecting on the events of the day, the last few months, maybe contemplating the life to come - a life without him. When all of a sudden she piped up saying "You know it gives me great pleasure to know that for all eternity my foot is gonna be up his ass." What does it say about our family that this was not in the least bit surprising to hear come from my grandmother's mouth?

I need to clarify though - this statement was made in jest...sort of. We are a people who address most situations with humor. Mourning the passing of both of my grandparents are some of the fondest memories I have. Not because I was happy that they were gone - quite to the contrary -it was devastating but we spent the week following their deaths celebrating their lives. We ate, sang, laughed, some argued a little, but overall we enjoyed each other. Their four children and 14 grandchildren - the family that they created - as well as cousins, siblings, friends, and community members. We were a family that triumphed through great trials and complexity.

My Bubbe married my Zayde when she was 19 years old. He was 26, a handsome, kind faced, World War II veteran. They met in his cab in Philly and he asked her out on the spot. She told him she was 23. He proposed on their first date and a week later they met at the courthouse to get the marriage certificate. When they were filling it out and they got to the place where she had to put her birthdate she had to come clean first saying she was only 21 and then finally telling the truth - she was merely 19 years old. He recoiled stating that he was too old and he couldn't go through with it. But, as was her way, she convinced him to follow through. It wasn't hard though, he completely adored her.

Shortly after they married he began acting strangely and was eventually diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. He struggled for decades in and out of hospitals, from doctor to doctor hoping to find the right medication. His family and Bubbe's suggested that she institutionalize him and move on. But - whatever her reasons - she didn't. They raised their children and made things work the best they knew how. She provided child care in the home and he worked for her family's business never earning enough money or respect. Their home was modest but meticulous - always. She worked hard and was proud of the life they'd made in the face of all they had to shoulder.

When I think of my childhood and all the time I spent with them and of all the stories I hear about my dad's upbringing they never talked about the troubles or the pain. For obvious reasons I'd imagine - but they could have. No, what we heard from our grandparents and our parents was about all the fun they used to have. They were always laughing and doing crazy things like rearranging the bedrooms in their tiny house in the middle of the night so everyone got a new room. Their kids' friends were always welcome and fed no matter how much they ate. She made everyone feel like a part of the family.

My brother, I, and later our much younger sister, would spend weekends at their house with our cousins. We would eat chocolate ice cream with crushed pretzels (a delicacy that everyone should try), we'd play rummy tile or trivial pursuit - which is hilarious with a bunch of children, and have fashion shows, or put on musical reviews for which our grandparents would provide a most appreciative audience. On New Year's Eve, after watching the ball drop we'd run outside in our pajamas to bang pots and pans together on the front lawn welcoming the new year. She made everything special.

They drove eachother crazy, my grandparents. Fighting and bickering frequently. But they managed to stay married for 47 years through poor health, mental instability on both their parts, child bearing and rearing, money troubles, and whatever else life served up. Their irritation and resentment toward one another was equivalent to the joy, love, and generosity that they showed eachother and each of us. I can understand - being married now to the love of my life - how she might have gotten great pleasure knowing that she could put her foot in his ass... without causing any real anguish.

So as we drove away that fateful day and said our goodbyes looking toward the future, us without our beloved Zayde and father; her without this man who for better and worse she'd shared most of the last 50 years with - we knew that he was laughing at what she'd said and smiling down on us all.