Walk in the park

The next day is Labor Day, down time. My sister and I have done the phone relays, most everybody knows now, so we’re at irons. I go to the park.

How and why this makes sense, isn’t really clear to me – but it just happens on automatic, and alternatives never really present themselves. Mom’s cell is in and out, but she was able to tell me she’s meeting with the coroner today. I’ve arranged for mom’s flight out, but there’s no telling if she’ll be able to take it.

My cell barely works in my house, but it’s the number she’s been calling – so I go out. The boy and I are going to spend the day playing in the park, all the while hoping that transport arrangements have been made for my father’s body.

All this from two phone calls, both lasting less than 5 minutes in total. I’ve called relatives and friends relating a partial story as if I know. In reality, I don’t know what happened, I know he fell, Bill gave him CPR, and mom thought he was gone right then. No last words, just there – then gone.

We get to the park and set up. I’m just going through the motions, done it before. The boy is on the swings, and mom is trying to locate my father (he’s been moved, and there are no working phones) trying to meet with the coroner, trying to make a host of decisions she’d likely thought were decades away.

My son’s on the slide, and I’m doing my safety net thing. The boy is a godsend – you can’t be unhappy around him. His laugh and smile are infectious, and despite everything, the afternoon is going great.

No calls, though – and all southward calls are being blocked: “Due to the hurricane, your call cannot be...” I try a few times, just because. We’re in a neighborhood park that’s cut out of a modern Norman Rockwell scene. My son and I arrived just before one family starts setting up a grill. Then another family joins them, then another. Soon I’m in the middle of a community event, complete with sporting equipment and a buffet.

Children being great ice-breakers, I’m soon chatting with one of the moms in the group, as her son trots into the same sandbox as mine. She invites me to have a beer with them, but hell – I’m not going to be up for that. Either I avoid the subject, or become the downer. I bail out
– and call my sister. Mom got her earlier in the day, and it looks like things are progressing, mom will call that night.

Home is where the food is, and the boy has to eat. I pick my son up and pack it in. Crummy reception or not, we’ll just have to deal.

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