Legal Eagle

As I mentioned before, Dad had a secretary named Janet. He loved Janet's efficiency and how she took care of the nitty gritty of his office. I've been helping Dad with his finances and paying the bills, and I'm his new Janet.

On a recent visit he handed me papers he received from the Board of Bar Overseers, forms for license renewal.

"I want to renew my license to practice law," he said. He signed the forms. "Send these out for me, will you? And see that the fee is paid."


"No worries."

Tonight my boss called.

"Did you take care of the thing?"

"For your license renewal?" Dad is sometimes vague about what he talks about.

"Yes."

"Yup, made copies for you and mailed everything out this morning."

"Good. You know this will be my 60th. year practicing before the Bar. I want to keep it up because it will look good in the paper."

"The paper? You mean your obituary?"

"Yeah."

Palm to forehead.

Wishes

A few days after the milk expedition, Dad called.

"Ever since the other day, all I've been hearing from your mother is 'buh-pup-buh, buh-pup-buh, buh-pup-buh'. Like a damn broken record. Even up here, I can hear her still."

"You're up in your room?"

"I had to get away from her. I can't take it anymore."

There was a pause. A companionable silence.

"Y'know, that's another reason I don't want her in the same hole. All I'll hear for eternity is bu-pup-buh, buh-pup-buh, buh-pup-buh."

Polar Bears

Preface: Himself and I have been discussing what we will do when we become weebles. We've decided to follow the practice of the Inuits. When the elders feel they are becoming a burden to their family, they wander off into the frozen wilderness. Yeah, I know I whine a lot about the cold, the snow, and the ice, but I've never seen the Aurora Borealis. That's the carrot, and it offsets my dislike for the cold, the snow, and the ice. In this idyll, Himself and I, hand in hand, settle on an ice floe. We look up with wonder at the ribbons of color as the Aurora dances and blazes in the night sky until WHUMP! Polar bear food.

Himself and the Young One were heading out the door to karate classes. Himself would be teaching and The Young One would take a class and then assist in the tot's class.

"Put a jacket on," I said to The Young One.

"Mom," she replied as if I was feeble-minded. Her eyeballs were rolling in their sockets in that charming way of teens.

"It's 50 degrees outside." [I know to those of you in Minnesota this sounds ludicrous. Why you're thinking 50 degrees is balmy. We wear shorts and tee shirts. Maybe that's the case in The Land of Here There Be Dragons, but here in semi-Civilization, today's 50 degrees is cold, rainy, and damp.]

I look to Himself and do an imitation of the Young One.

"And this is the generation that will be looking after us." Obviously they don't have the sense that God gave a head of lettuce if they don't know to put on a coat when it's cold outside.

Himself smiles a no worries smile.

"Polar bears. It's why some animals eat their elders."

Bethlehem Street

As long as I can remember Ma has complained about the location of the house I grew up in and where the Weebles still live some 56 years later. The house is on a dead end street. A quiet neighborhood while I was growing up, punctuated with the shouts and laughter of the neighborhood kids playing kick the can on summer nights, or baseball in the vacant lot next door to where Himself lived.

Ma didn’t mind the noise of the kids. She hated “the roar of the highway”. Next to the “Stupid Song”, it’s another favorite hymn.

The highway parallels their street and the back yard is separated from it by another backyard and house. Route 9 was a scenic highway and was the major thoroughfare into Boston before the Mass Pike was put in. When I was little, the median was lined with maple trees. During the early 60’s, a hurricane roared through and what trees the hurricane didn’t take down the highway department did. The tree-lined median was replaced with tar, concrete and metal barriers. So much for scenic.

The traffic on Route 9 has increased in the 56 years the Weebles have lived in their house. I don’t really see where there is a roar. The traffic sounds to me are white noise, easily tuned out. Most of the time, Route 9 is gridlocked so the traffic doesn’t move at all. I don’t know where Ma hears the roar.

“I’m up at all hours of the night because of the roar of the highway.”

“You can’t sit outside and enjoy the yard because of the roar of the highway.”

Dad echoes her sentiment and agrees with Ma, though I think it’s more agreement to go along to get along. He has told me when Ma whines that she hates the house and wants to move, she was the one who insisted he buy the house for her. Ma gave him an ultimatum. The house or else. I sometimes wonder if Dad is sorry he didn’t wait to see what was behind The Or Else Curtain instead of going for The Grand House Prize.

Recently in a fit of dark humor, I was telling Himself I knew of a place Ma might like. It was peaceful, quiet, and far away from the roar of the highway on the other side of town.

“Maybe she’d like to have a lot on Bethlehem St.,” I said.

“Bethlehem St?” Himself ask. “Where’s that?”

“Maybe they could find a nice spot at the corner of Bethlehem St. and St. Joseph Ave.”

“But that’s the cemetery!”

“She couldn’t complain about the roar of the highway.”

“That’s true.” Himself snickered along with me.

“Though she might not be too happy about the geese. ‘I’m up at all hours of the night because of the honking of the geese.’ I mimicked Ma. “‘You can’t enjoy the peace and quiet of the outdoors because of the geese.’ Then again, Ma not only hates the house they live in, but she hates the town. She wants to move, but I don't know where she would go. Ma doesn't want to be buried in the Catholic cemetery in town. I'm sure she would nix the burial in the Protestant and Jewish cemeteries, too. She’s told me she doesn’t want to be buried in the ground, but in a mausoleum. Where? Your guess is as good as mine.

Himself flipped through several channels while the ballgame was in commercial.

“I sure hope Auntie Rose comes through with that big check in two weeks,” Himself said.

Amen.

Contracts 101

The loss of her friend was weighing heavily on Ma. While tying her shoes she told me second hand, about Comater’s last moments. Comater was unresponsive all weekend.

“She opened her eyes and looked at Cee. Then she said, ‘Maybe I’ll find your father.’ She closed her eyes, and she was gone.”

I think the death story brought some measure of peace to Ma.

While waiting for Ma to finish breakfast, Dad told us his interpretation of the story.

“Your mother was telling me, if I go first, when it’s her turn, she’ll come looking for me.” Dad grimaced.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong? Just like I told your mother, I signed a contract.”

Ever the lawyer.

“It says ‘Til death do us part.’”

Just as if he was explaining a point of law to a client, he enunciated the words slowly and clearly so they would sink in.

“I told your mother, after that we call it quits.”

Hole in One

We celebrated a holy day today, Dad’s 89th birthday. After the festivities, and the Brother and his family had left, Ma and Dad sat in the living room. Ma nodded off.

The subject of mortality must have been weighing heavily on Dad.

“Guess I’ll be cashing in my chips very soon,” he sighed.

“Don’t you check out so fast, old man,” I said.

“What are you gonna do about it?” He lifted his chin in challenge.

I pointed at him and then at Ma.

“Same hole.”

Himself chuckled.

Dad was taken aback. “No, I don’t want that.”

“He who goes first, has no say.”

Danse Macabre

Conversations with the Weebles can turn to morbid thoughts. Usually, this happens around the holidays . "Well, I wonder how many Christmases I have left." "This may be my last Thanksgiving." Deep sigh. Forlorn look. I'm never sure if the comments are to spark some sympathy or some sort of death wish.

Dad and I were having a cup of tea. Ma had nodded off and her tea sat untouched and getting cold. Dad shook his head and heaved a deep sigh.

"Sometimes, I don't know. Maybe it would be better to just." He raised his index finger and pointed it at his temple.

"Don't you dare!" I yelled horrified. "You're not going to leave me to handle this by myself."

He gave me that "what are you going to do about it look."

"If you do. If you do.." I tried to think of the worse thing. "I'll wear red to your funeral and dance on your grave."

He laughed. "That's alright. I won't mind."

I didn't think quickly enough on my feet. I thought of the perfect answer on the way home. What I should have said: If you do, I'll bury her in the same hole!

Dia De Los Muertos

Getting the weebles to talk about final wishes is necessary, but difficult. When bringing up the subject, the perception is so how much of that $2 million that Nostradumbass is sending you do I get?

Not long ago, I was surprised when Dad began talking about his final wishes. He told me about an insurance policy through the Veterans Administration. I already knew this as several years ago, Ma showed me where she kept the important papers. She's quite fond of rearranging furniture and things so all bets are off that the important papers are still in the location where she showed me.

Anyway, Dad was telling me about the insurance policy. There would be enough money from the policy to bury him and Ma. He said he would like to be buried at the national cemetery down the Cape. I nodded though hoped if he passed the funeral wouldn't be on a weekend during the summer. Traffic would take days to move around the Bourne rotary. Guess we'll just have to burn that bridge when we come to it.

He also said he wanted a military funeral. As a WWII veteran, he said he was entitled. I'm assuming he meant a flag draped casket, honor guard, and bugler from the local VFW. I have to make a note how to get in touch with the Joint Chiefs as dignitaries, just in case.

"Now you don't have to worry about the burial plot. That will be provided. At no cost"

"Ok," I said as if I were taking notes.

"One other thing."

I thought he was going to give me a list of hymns he would like played at the funeral. Some years ago, he gave me his 27 page obituary to be put in the newspaper. I half expected to hear him say he wanted the Ave Maria sung at the Mass and wasn't it too bad Nelson Eddy was gone and couldn't sing it. Nelson Eddy had been a friend of a cousin and had sung at the cousin's wedding.

"I don't want HER buried in the same hole!"

I choked with laughter. "Okay, but what should we do with her."

"I don't care." It had been a difficult day for him with Ma sniping and singing the 'He's Stupid Song' to all within earshot. He paused in thought. "Burn the witch!"

The Will

While chatting on the phone with Ma, I played Scrabble Blast on the computer with the sound turned off. I made sure to un huh, and yeah in the right places. Ma was riding the gravy train again, how she was going to win $2 million this week. It's always this week. Un huh.

I used to try to reason with her, to tell her people didn't gift you with huge sums of money. Her little trolley wouldn't slip the track, and I ended up with that familiar, pulsing pain behind my left eye. The Brother, ever the brilliant tactician, gave me a way to cope and to save me a pain blinding run to the Excedrin bottle. He said when she starts in on something (no one does anything for me, no one helps, I'm winning $2 million) just say "Oh, wow." Simply elegant.

She was saying Nostradumbass told her she was born under a lucky star. Oh, wow. Didn't PT Barnum of circus fame say there was a sucker born every minute? The conversation took a turn onto the no one does anything for me spur. I tuned Ma out concentrating instead on how to make a word with 4 eeees.

"You do things for your father, but you won't do them for me." She was still sore that I wouldn't take her pile of sweepstakes entries to the post office.

"You know that's not true. You didn't push your walker to the emergency room when you fell and broke your wrist. In fact, I was a God send that day because I almost decided not to visit, but I got a feeling something was wrong so I showed up." She likes the supernatural and it's a handy hole card so I played it.

There was some grumbling. "When I get my $2 million, I'm going to go to a lawyer. I'm gonna have a will made. All I'm leaving your father is $1, so you better make up your mind."

"About what?"

"Whether it's him or me. You jump when your father asks you to do something, but you never do anything for me. So you better make up your mind!"

"I'll take the dollar."

Disclaimer: This blog is not a legally binding written document.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Ma had an appointment with the ear doctor. She was to have her ears flushed out and then we would all have to mind our p's and q's.

I thought I'd arrive early, have a bit of a visit, and score some brownie points. I rang the bell several times and waited as bolts and locks were turned.

"What? Still in your pajamas?"

"I knew I didn't have to rush today."

"Where's Dad?"

"He went to the library."

She finished getting dressed and then came into the living room with her shoes. "Put my shoes on for me."

Ma had told me her father used to tease her, call her Donna Fifi, The Lady Fifi. I had an odd feeling as to whether I was lady in waiting or parent. "These aren't your new shoes? Why aren't you wearing your new shoes?"

"I don't like them, they hurt my feet."

"Why didn't you tell the doctor?"

"He got awful angry with me last year when I sent the shoes back because he ordered the wrong size. Put the kettle on for tea."

We sat in the kitchen, sipping tea. I had an odd sense of deja vu as I sat at my place. We were woven into a fabric of tea and gossip. Ma used to invite Himself's mother over for tea and I was always included. Even as a young teen, Ma never excluded me. How sad that most of the people that we talked about were gone. Grandma, Auntie, her daughter, Himself's mother. Still it was a pleasant ritual of chatting bits of nothing, and it was peaceful. A momentary stab of guilt sliced through me as I thought how pleasant it is spending time with only one parent at a time. How different they are when they are not with each other.

I glanced at the clock. "Will Dad be coming to the doctor's with you?"

"I don't know."

I looked at the clock again, still time, but I only knew the location of the office, date and time of the appointment, not which doctor she had to see. "Do you know which doctor you're supposed to see?"

"No, HE knows, but HE doesn't tell me." I'm a little irritated. Dad has a habit of not keeping Ma in the loop, and there are some two hundred doctors at the medical building. I wondered what percentage of them are ENTs. No, matter. I decided I could call the doctor's office that gave her the referral. I went upstairs to Dad's office to hunt for a telephone directory. As luck would have it, on the keyboard of the dusty computer, is a scrap of paper with the ear doctor's name, suit number, phone number, time and date of the appointment. Thank you, Jesus!

We finished tea and moved the gossip session to the livingroom. Ma had the curtains pulled back and was watching out the window for Dad.

He came into the house and sank into a nearby chair. He was breathing heavily. "I..I...ran...all...the...way...up...the....hill."

"Ya dumbass! What did you do that for?" I should have been more sympathetic, but I was alarmed and the worry came out as a smartass remark.

"I completely forgot she had an appointment today. I didn't remember until I was halfway up the hill."

Ma sat down with me standing behind her. "If you're starting to forget things," she said, "I'm going to put you in the home!"

I chuckled and held up two fingers.

"What?" he asked.

"You go as a two-fer."

"What?"

"A BOGO. By one, get one free," I winked.

"I'm not going to the nursing home with him!" shouted Ma.

Somehow the conversation turned to final wishes.

"And you're not going to bury me in this town! For 63 years, I've been buried up here..." Ma was a city girl born and bred and the town isn't on the subway line. It's been a sore point as long as I could remember. Though according to Dad when they found the house some 56 years ago, this was the dream house, the one Ma had to have.

"Alright, Ma, where do you want to be buried? Do you want to be buried in the cemetary where your parents are?"

"Oh, no! That's too hard to get into. Besides, no one will come to visit. IF I have to be buried in the ground, I want to be buried where your Uncle Chick is buried."

We've had this conversation before. Ma has some sort of problem about being buried in the ground. She wanted to be buried in a vault or mausoleum. I actually think it's more of a case of sibling rivalry as her sister is buried in a vault. I had once related this information to Dad. His answer was "We'll burn her!" I never figured out whether that was to be considered an economical alternative or a funeral for a witch. I also refrained from telling Ma that since Uncle Chick is buried near the NH border, chances are no one would want to make the Memorial Day trip. Like most New Englanders, we barely drive an hour from our home area.

It was time to drop the morbid subject and head to the doctor's office. There was a moment of tension in the elevator as Ma yelled at Dad to get out all the insurance cards she would need. He had been fishing in her pocketbook for the wallet and she snatched it out of his hands and it fell to the floor.

"Knock it off!" I roared. "We can take care of this in the doctor's office."

I approached the secretary's cage, handed her the Donna Fifi's insurance cards, and sat down with my book in the waiting room. The doctor was writing notes on a patient's chart on the far side of the secretary's cage.

Ma had thought this was the first time she would be seeing this doctor and then remembered she had seen him once before. "Oh, I don't like this doctor. He's not as good as the one your girlfriend sent me to." I try very hard not to laugh. Ma is as subtle as a rash, and she does not whisper.

The doctor came to call Ma into his office. Dad picked up a magazine and I settled in with my book. We could hear the doctor admonish Ma about the use of Q-tips. The doctor stands before Dad and I.

"Are you with Mary?"

I go back to reading my book.

"When you get home. Take the Q-tips and throw them away! She has impacted the wax against her ear drum. The Q-tips are not necessary and are bad to use." The doctor returned to Ma with a huff.

I leaned over to Dad and whispered, "Good luck." As if Ma will throw away the Q-tips or allow them to be tossed out.

On the ride home, I noticed Ma has her hand against her left ear as if she's an old time radio announcer.

"Are you okay? What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to see if I can hear out of this ear."

"It would probably help if people were talking. Can you hear me now?"