Little help

Saw this in today's Sun Herald:

Mississippi's Invisible Coast

"Our plea to newspapers and television and radio and Web sites across the land is no less important today: Please, tell our story. Hear the voice of our people and tell it far and wide.

We are here. Do not forsake us.

We are no footnote."

Somebody oughta know. Read the rest here.

Live now, write later

As most would have guessed, this blog has been written retroactively.

The recollections are as good as I can make them - and I have every intention of completing the events of that week.

This post is realtime, and my sister and I are about to get in the car to take mom home. Mom has no phones and no internet, and while I've explored posting via cell. I've come to the conclusion that writing is best done in quiet reflection, and this is not likely to happen in the coming week.

The full story will be posted - it has to get out of my head - but it will be the 17th of October before I'm back from Mississippi.

Non sequiturs

It's getting away from me - and some gaps are simply too large to ignore.
Some of the things I don't want to lose:

• C's wife watching our boy so that E and I can go into the service together. She's the absolute model of decorum and charm the entire weekend.
  
  
• C's showing up in jeans and a blazer, because they'd packed in such a rush. They'd bought a shirt en route or he'd have been Sonny Crocket in jeans, Tee-shirt and a blazer. He's a champ, that one.
  
  
• Jen's in-laws watching her boys in the nursery. It is the only time I see any of them, it was as if they were there and gone between blinks.
  
  
• G's wife T giving me a hug before they go. G promising to give Notre Dame "my regards" as they drive by South Bend (in about seven hours).
  
  
• My little guy. Dressed up and happy to see everyone, oblivious to it all.
  
  
• BJ complaining to my mother that the coffee she was serving was "too strong yesterday, and too weak today." Well, thanks so much, BJ. Next time one of our immediate family dies, we'll be sure to double-check the coffee.
  
  
• One of my cousins telling me that dad often bragged on me to family. Something I could scarcely imagine, much less believe.
  
  
• Someone telling me at the internment. "Well, you're the man of the family, now." Biting back my first impulse, I opt for "Don't you say that."
  
  
• Talking with dad's cousin, DB at the internment. We have a nice talk and I float part of the eulogy I will never give- that dad was spared the one thing that I'm sure he could never stand: losing the ability to do things for himself. I shouldn't have said this to DB. Fortune has not been kind to his family, and that's a little too close to where he lives right now.
      He says that it would be terrible to just exist, and not be able to contribute anything. I can tell he's upset - We change the subject.
  
  
• And Grandma. Such an undeserved hardship after such a charitable life. If there is a God, he's got a lot to answer for.
  

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Souvenir

The internment is at one, and it is to be family only. Mom told me that this of course includes my friends and I pass this along.

I'm unsure how I would react to such an offer, but G & C and the gang take it in stride. Of course they'll come along. I'm glad - having them around has really helped.

I pass my cousin in the parking lot, and he begins telling me a story about him and my dad. It means a lot to him, and it clearly takes a lot to tell it. I'm just a million miles away while he does it, though.

I'm remembering my dad teaching my cousin to ride a bike. Dad's brother had said that my cousin wasn't ready yet - and my dad went outside to prove him wrong. By the end of the day, my cousin was riding a bike - and I always thought that was a lousy thing for my father to do, rob his brother of that moment. Sensitivity be damned, dad got it done.

My cousin finishes up and I drift back into the conversation. We collect mom and head to the internment.

---

I have a fairly active imagination and along the way to the cemetery I'm remembering the thousands of times I have imagined a moment like this one. Any time my mind is idle, it begins conjuring up horrors and dramas to throw at me until I make it stop. I've envisioned almost every conceivable family tragedy over and over.

Mini-dramas from beginning to end, the phone call, the funeral, every anguished moment.

I've no idea why this happens, or - more accurately - why I do this to myself. But I have, and I do - and never, in any of these scenarios did I imagine my father.

The nightmares and imagined tragedies now seem like grade-school fiction. Incomplete, inadequate, and born of no real experience.

---

Dad's casket is out in the sun - it's a lovely day and we join the crowd gathering around it.

I think the pastor was expecting an small affair with immediate family - when the full multitude of extended family arrives, he's clearly overwhelmed. He has nothing prepared, and quickly launches into prayer.

Mom's been concerned for days that this service would degenerate into an endless stream of remembrances, and - lacking direction - we are clearly headed that way. As soon as the pastor stops talking, I'm afraid we'll be listening to everyone's favorite Dad story, each in turn.

And then something great happens: The cousins begin to sing.

They're a musical group by nature - and lots of times I wished they're weren't. But today, now, I close my eyes and just soak it up.

A sunny day, a slight breeze, and a hymn sung a Capella. This was how everything should have been. No church, no fool of a pastor, just a family singing a lament for one of their own.

---

After a few hymns, mom steps forward and takes the flag off dad's casket. I tell her she'd best keep moving or people will begin to fill the silence with whatever comes to mind.

At that moment, to prove my point, mom's brother (who was a Marine for about five minutes) steps forward and salutes the coffin.

With that, everyone seems to know it's over.

I'm turning to thank G & C and everyone for coming all this way, and Mom's brother stops me.

"The crosses, they come off."

I look at him uncomprehendingly.

"You get one, so does M and your mom and your sister."

He's pointing at the casket. The funeral director is grappling with one of the Gaelic crosses affixed to each corner. He gives a mighty heave and it snaps free. Triumphant, he hands me the cross.

Not having any idea how to react, I take it and walk over to the gang, while other family members - having seen this, descend on the casket to remove the other three crosses.

I thank everyone for coming and say my goodbyes.

A&C ask me about the cross I'm holding - and the words just fall out of my mouth.

"Apparently, modern coffins come with souvenirs."

I don't let it bother me. It it so good to see everyone.

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Chatter

We go downstairs, into the waiting throng. There's a huge line for food and the church's layout ensures maximum snarl. I cut through to find mom - people shift rapidly from annoyance to sympathy as I bump awkwardly through them.

Dad knew a lot of people, and I know virtually none of them. Most are good enough to identify themselves, but I'm not really in a good mindset for retaining anything.

"Thank you, thank you. Yes. Yes.... Yes."

I meet up with mom, E and the rest, take my turn in line for food, and ultimately find myself parked with G, C and the gang.

The basement is sweltering and soon we're upstairs, commandeering a room and talking about subjects that have no business being discussed in church. We're jolted back into good behavior when one of the church ladies arrives to take our picture.

Cheese.

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Pallbearer

Lining up to be a pallbearer, I just can't help from getting mad again.

When L had phoned me at home to offer to help with the funeral in any way, I had passed this on to mom. She had naturally, invited him to speak and to be a pallbearer. At that point, adding L meant we had an odd number, so mom asked me to step in as well.

When the moment comes, I'm near the front end of the casket, so I just take hold of the front right handle- only to be interrupted by dad's youngest brother

"No. L goes first."

I let go and look at him.

Are you serious?

L steps in front of me and takes hold, and we all carry dad's casket into the back of the hearse.

Where I was in "the order" was the last thing in the world I would have thought about, and now it's the only thing I'm thinking about.

What a crock.

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Eulogy

Jen's in-laws are watching the boy, so E and I can go in and see dad together. By this time I've had it and the two of us just stand there until the people waiting behind gently herd us to the back of the church.

There are a lot of people. It's hard to say that without seeming proud of that fact, but I was - and there were a lot of people.

Mom had stopped near the entrance to the church and a line of people formed almost instantly - each person waiting their turn to offer condolences to the widow. Mom kept moving forward to greet people and soon she was in the driveway, with people lined up into the parking lot in the sun. I brought her inside so at least these people would be in the shade.

E's sister arrived with her husband, they'd had a hell of a trip up from Chicago, but they were here.

Jen moved through the crowd greeting and visiting - she knew so many of them, and she was always better at this sort of thing. I found an out of the way place to stand and readied my pat responses. Thank you. Yes. Thank you.

A classmate, a co-worker, uncles, cousins. They keep coming and I run out of things to say.

The service begins, and we file into our reserved seats. Front row, center. Three feet from dad's casket.

The pastor tries hard, but there's nothing he can say to me. He'd barely met my father, and is only a little older than I am. He talks of an end to suffering and is mercifully brief.

A family friend sings my dad's favorite hymns. It is for me, the first genuine moment of the service.

Then L stands to deliver the eulogy. He's been a wreck all morning, but there's no doubt he'll pull it together. He's a politician, a former radio host, and a natural showman. He's polished, funny and well-spoken - and I am in no mood for any of it.

He said "Guess God must have wanted something fixed." I laughed - we all did - but it was the kind of joke that goes sour almost instantly. I stare at the casket and go into my own head.

Part of me has been wanting to speak at the funeral since that first day. I'd been mentally preparing ever since. Mom put paid to that idea when she said that the wanted the funeral to be short and simple. "I don't want this to turn into a drawn out affair," she'd said more than once.

It was the right decision for so many reasons. If she invited more than one person to talk, everyone would. A prolonged lament wouldn't be good for anyone.

I really wanted to say something, though. Say all the things I'd never said to dad when he was alive. My eulogy would not have been uplifting. It would have been filled with self-reproach, self-pity and regret. I doubt I would have been able to pull it off in front of a crowd. It would have been exactly the kind of thing mom wanted to avoid.

---

The service ends and the family stands and files out behind the coffin. I've spent the end of the service shutting out the whole room, so it's a bit of a sudden realization that we will be walking out first - past the entire congregation. As if anyone would care what I looked like, I try to keep my composure on the way out. This holds until I run into some friends from college I didn't know were coming. A&C had somehow found out and driven until they were standing right in front of me. They are such decent people - and the sight of them just ruins me.

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Visitors

The boy is up earlier than usual, so we're downstairs when the rest of the crew wakes up. Jen and her husband, their boys, mom - we're all bouncing around the house - taking food in turns.

There's a flurry of people, we get dressed in our best and then we're taking mom in.

At the church, we park and are walking up the front ramp when we are greeted by mom's brothers. One look at their faces and we're up to our necks. That side of the family is pretty big hearted, mom's younger brother isn't taking it well, her oldest brother and his wife take mom by the hand and go in.

On the way in are two cousins I've never met. From their mannerisms and conversation, I can tell I haven't missed much. My wife has the boy, so - unthinking - I enter the main room where my dad is.

---

I've often said that the worst thing I've ever seen was Grandma crying, that's not really true. The worst thing I've ever seen happened right in this church, right where I'm standing.

My grandfather's funeral was also held here, many years ago. I arrived in the entrance of the church for the visitation right when my mother and father were returning from viewing my grandfather's remains.

My dad had just seen his dad's body.

All my life, my father had been many things: furious and kind, blunt and tender, wise and hardheaded. This moment was without precedent.

My father was being helped from the room because he seemed unable to stand. He was shattered and overcome - something I doubted was even possible. Mom was holding him up, and they rushed out of the entryway to somewhere private.

It was, without a doubt, the most frightening and terrible thing I have ever seen.

---

So I go in, alone, since my wife is with the boy - and because I'm too simple to just wait. So I go in a rushed circuit of the room. I barely look before I'm unable to see anything. Mom's brother thought to pack extra handkerchiefs, so I'm using his to mop up on my way back to the entrance.

More people arrive - L and the rest. I go up again with mom and Grandma, and we all wilt together. Mom remarks that she was afraid of how dad would look because of the swelling of the head injury. "They did a good job," she says.

I can't think. Dad looks nothing like himself - I've never been to a funeral where the person ever does. There's a folded flag and dad is not in uniform, he'd want it that way.

That's when I just can't contain the fury at all of this. So unnecessary, so pointless, a goddamned tree branch. This man swam though a hurricane surge, he was in better shape than his own son, he was not a careless man. He's supposed to teach my son things, he's supposed to help Grandma, mom, the whole damn family. This isn't right, and there's nothing to do but take it.

Grandma's saying something about how it doesn't get easier. Grief, that is.

"No," I say, "We'll just get used to it being this bad."

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Turning in

We get back, the house is dark. Everyone turned in early, so we sneak upstairs and into our bedrooms. My wife is in one room with the boy, I'm in the connecting room.

The boy's out - always been a good sleeper. I line up my clothes for tomorrow and go to bed.

Since Sunday, my waking moments have been filled with me writing a eulogy I will never give. I'm back on the job tonight, but it just is too much. I go to pieces sometime around one and can't get it back together.

Afraid that my wife will hear, I turn it into a coughing fit. That I can suppress, and soon I can quiet down.

Sleep.

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Sauerkraut pizza

I've got one last out, one last personal indulgence before tomorrow. Pizza.

When G called on Monday - I joked that if he came to the funeral, I'd make him go to the local pizzeria and have their specialty: sauerkraut pizza. "Least something good could come out of this, I could finally win you over." G said he'd try it, and I'd been planning for this ever since.

It's not as selfish as it sounds, I wanted to do something to acknowledge my out of town friends. These are people who've maybe spoken to my dad once or twice, but are coming up out of respect for the family. I wanted to make sure we had time to visit.

So it's pizza, sauerkraut pizza to be exact. A local delicacy that the mind recoils from and the taste buds adore.

When I was a kid, the only pizza we had at our house was those Chef Boyardee pizza kits, and mom always made them with cheddar cheese. Needless to say, the first time I went to dad's hometown pizza joint - I was hooked for life. Any other pizza I've had, at best it's a distant second to Frankie's on the east end of town.

C and his wife were delayed, they had a clothes mix-up and had to buy C a shirt in Duluth, so I start by connecting with G and his wife at their hotel. They're great, and I relax immediately. I love my family, but it's easier to feel normal around my friends.

C, his wife, and presumably his new shirt all arrive and we head out for za.

I've been talking the place up, and fretting about how we'll get in (I've called for pizza at 6pm and was told it won't be ready until 9pm) so I'm more than a bit surprised to see the place is deserted. All my life, this place is a place you need a crowbar to get into, and if the wait was two hours, you found something to do and came back.

As soon as we step in it occurs to me, I've only been here on the weekend - we've never lived in this town - so I've only ever come at peak days and times.

We're here at nine-thirty on a Thursday. Not even the local die-hards are here.

I order one with sauerkraut and one with everything else, and the gang gamely gobbles both down. All claim to enjoy the sauerkraut pizza - although, given the circumstances, I doubt any would complain if they were allergic.

It's great to see everyone, and they're all just like I remember them, only thinner. We have a good meal, goof off with the help, and are generally obnoxious. Hell, there's no one else there, we own the place. We break up outside and say our goodbyes 'til tomorrow.

'Best two hours I've had all week.

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Arrival and reunion

We pull into town around one, and we drop mom off directly at the funeral parlor. I want to stay and help her, but mom makes it clear that this is something she'll handle.

She's worried that the clothes she packed for dad are in the suitcase she left with Jen. That would mean one or two hours behind us. I don't see this as a problem, but it wasn't in the plan.

Mom waves us off, tells us she'll call our cell if she needs us, and goes inside.

I just didn't know where to be on that one. Mom might need the help, but she genuinely seems to want to spare me this. I guess I want to be spared.

We drive to Grandma's old house, and see Grandma and my dad's sister B just getting out of their cars. Dad's sister did get the news, and made it back, nice to see the fates aren't that cruel.

Grandma says hello and mentions how nice it is that the house didn't sell and we can all stay together.

I say something stupid, "Things never change." Big grin on my face.

Grandma buckles and says, "everything's changed."

And there goes the composure, right out the window.

---

The house is eerily like it used to be, albeit with an apartment-sized bite taken out of the furnishings. The living room has three chairs and the entertainment center that dad made, and nothing else.

My aunt tells us that the upstairs rooms are all set, and people have been bringing food all day. F brought by two industrial-sized pans of food, and there's enough lasagna to feed a battalion.

We get the boy set up, he charms the locals, and then the crowds start to arrive. L's here, with his wife I adore - and his brother I don't. Dad's brother is out picking up the youngest brother up from the cities. Family friends of my mother... and on and on.

The ladies from church stop by to ask about themes and decorations for the funeral lunch. Mom's not back yet, so mostly we offer them indecision. At least in my presence, mom was very clear on two things: this was not going to be a drawn-out affair and dad viewed his military career as in the past.

Their American-flag theme goes out the window, and they opt for plan-B and depart. (Well, first they inquire as to who I am for saying so, but since I'm the son - they take my word for it.) At the moment, I'm just too pent up to think nice things about these folks - but later I'm just floored by their energy and drive. Details I would never think of are being handled by people who have never been asked for a thing.

Bad news hit this town and people got busy. Mom told me she got the obit in the paper while she was in Mississippi. She was standing in her back yard, screaming into her cell phone because the connection was so terrible. She's amazed it turned out.

Dozens of details, songs, lunch, music are all being handled without my knowledge or input - all while I'm safely gorging myself Grandma's.

---

Mom gets back from the funeral parlor and says things are finally set. Jen dropped off dad's clothes before they showed up, so now her two boys mingle with the teeming mass of humanity at the old house.

Mom's surrounded, and I'm no help. I offer some useless advice about who should speak at the funeral, right before I realize that mom's past making more decisions or changes. It's done. The crowd swells, and we become numb to it.

Ten a.m. tomorrow, the onslaught begins.

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Petty thoughts

I'm leaving a lot of things out, too much to cover - too hard to remember it in sequence.

Phone calls from family - dad's cousin L in Chicago seems overly affected. They'd had some kind of feud, and now it will never get cleared up. He'd sent me an homage, told me how devastated he was, volunteered to be a pallbearer.

Truth was, I was so far from the action on that one, I have no idea what to think. Dad's baggage with him was his issue. Dad didn't discuss it, and so much as I was able, I communicated to him that L wanted to mend fences.

Now, the whole thing just seems so stupid. I have no absolution to offer, and whatever gesture L can offer up will never get to its intended audience.

I want to say, "It's over. Let it go."

Instead, I just say whatever seems safest.

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Road trips

The boy gets us up at six a.m., just like clockwork. I pre-load the trunk and put some coffee on.

We're up before mom, not normal - but she's entitled to sleep.

Last night, I taped some of the arial footage for mom, but it's all about New Orleans. We have a quick breakfast and are on the road before eight. Jen and family are starting out from Milwaukee, so they'll be at least an hour behind us.

Unknown to us, the family has been making arrangements to stay at Grandma's old house. I'd been thinking we'd do a hotel, or stay with Dad's brother.

Dad had been moving his mother out of the old house over the summer. Typical dad, he'd made the arrangements for his mother's new apartment - then spruced up the apartment with all new appliances, overhauled the old place, put it on the market, and gave her the entire summer to move anything she wanted from the old house into her new place.

The last job I helped my dad with was helping him install the cornices on Grandma's windows. Didn't so much help as bring him tools and stay out of his way - same as always.

Things were going according to plan, but Grandma's old house hadn't sold yet and was still full of things that might be moved, stored or parceled out to family. It's virtually ready to use, and friends and family are stocking it for our arrival. I'd said my goodbyes to the house, and here it was again - taking us in, just like old times.

Mom delighted in being with the boy. My son. He's just happy and doesn't care who knows. He's good for all of us on the way up. Gives us something good to focus on, safe conversation.

My sister in law is coming north with her husband. That's easily seven hours, even if you speed. My best man C is driving up from the cities with his wife, and G-

-on Tuesday, G had told me he had to be in Ohio on Saturday - so a Friday funeral was a non-starter. I totally understood, my God, I wouldn't expect anyone to-

-he's coming. He and his wife will spend six hours driving up on Thursday, attend the funeral, then get right back in the car and drive to Ohio. I'm speechless.

Stand up guy? Oh, hell yeah.

Dad's brother is flying up from Florida. Dad's sister was in California and incommunicado as far as we know. We're just hoping she'll check in soon.

Family's coming from all over. Dad administered the last family reunion, so he's well known. This is hitting the family hard. Mom said she'd been asked if the people planning on food should expect more than one hundred. Mom told them two hundred wouldn't be out of line.

Two hundred. Jesus.

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Overnight

We part ways after dinner. Jen and her husband go back to their kids, I take mom home with me. Mom's big bag goes with Jen in the Blazer. We'll meet up tomorrow at Grandma's.

My wife's been prepping the house, and getting our things ready for the five and a half hour drive north. Mom talks a little about the past few days. Like her, I'm starved for information.

She'd spent an entire day roaming around with her friend J trying to find out where my father's body was. He'd been moved from the hospital, but since there were no communications, checking the possible options meant driving to each of them and banging on doors.

J bears special mention - prior to the storm, I'd known that her house was in a low area, and that her extended family was sheltering with them. After the storm, I'd feared the worst.

I should have known better. This woman goes to mass every day, and is a force to be reckoned with. Not a drop of water in her house. By the time my mom needed a ride to the airport, J's house had power and running water. Anyone who came to their house was fed, and she was doing laundry for eight families. J and her husband drove my mom to Mobile on back roads. They sidestep everything from traffic to washed out highways and put my mom on a plane.

Some way, somehow - these people are going to know how much I appreciate them.

We get home and it's too late for much of anything. Light conversation, mom takes a peek at my son, and we all turn in. My wife's gotten everything under control, made arrangements I haven't even begun to think about. Nothing to do but sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I'm awake just noticing how loud the world has become. I can hear my boy snoring softly down the hall. Below us, mom sleeps in the guest room dad put in, I can hear her coughing.

After a few minutes, she stops. My wife shifts next to me.

I lie awake for a long time.

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Mom

The airport is just like I remember it, forgettable.

We're an hour behind schedule, thanks to the airlines, but I don't think anyone can muster up the energy to care.

We walk as far as the security perimeter allows us, and eventually mom shows up looking just like she was at her last visit. We get the bags, and are gone - like this was just another pickup.

We head for dinner, choose a place based on its proximity to my parking spot, and there we start gradually edging closer to the awful reason why we're all together on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday night.

Dad's death is referred to as "the accident," by unspoken agreement, and that is as deep as we go into the subject. Mom is hungry for news of the outside world and I give her my copy of the Times for later.

No power, no phones - we realize she hasn't any idea of how messed up things are down south. We relate the latest horror stories coming out of New Orleans. Tell her about the terrible arial shots of her town. She takes it in stride, only the presence of ice water on the table seems to draw her full attention.

"They give you ice water," she beams.

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Starbucks

I'm meeting Jen and her husband outside of town. We'll pare down vehicles and meet mom's flight together.

The flight out of Mobile was delayed. Mom managed a call out to say that Mobile airport was just a nest of snakes - her flight was delayed and she was going to miss her connection.

She'd lost it, right there at the counter - and the person at the counter had an attack of humanity and told her they would get her on a plane out, don't you worry.

So she's delayed, but she's still on the way. We meet up, and do the hug thing. I buy a latte out of habit. They'd driven all the way from New York, and had left the kids with her in-laws in Milwaukee.

Before they'd left, their neighbor had come over to give them $250.00 worth of gas cards and a care package full of food and games for the two boys. People can really be something.

Yesterday, I'd come home to find a nondescript envelope out of Milwaukee. No letter, just $100.00 gas card from my friend G. Stand-up guy, all the way.

We chat a bit about navigation woes and the dreadful state of airlines in general, then we're off to the airport.

Fittingly, it's a crappy and grey day.

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Condolences

"He was a good man"

Yes, he was.

"How are you holding up?"

I'm all right.

Two days of this. Expressions of genuine concern that I'm fielding like tennis serves. "Ok?" Yes. "Sorry." Thanks.

And the truth is, I'm happy people care enough to ask - I just can't seem to manage to say anything other than something obvious and stupid. Family's doing ok, mom's flying out today, not sure what's next. They just keep coming out on reflex - like prefixes to the answers I should be giving.

He wasn't a good man, he was dad. He was the irresistible force, all my life. The guy who knew what to do all the time. The dad other dads envied, when he fixed their kid's bikes, then fixed their cars, and then pointed out a dozen things in their houses that needed repair. He took care of life's details, pushed through the pain, and got things done. Good man? Yeah, for starters.

Dad didn't do the empathy thing. He'd save you from your own foolishness, but you'd still feel like a fool when it was over. "You do this, like this, see? Simple." he'd say, before moving on to the next thing. And, sure, it was simple as explained to you - that instant - and you'd wonder why in hell you didn't just take care of it yourself. It's what dad would have done - just did, in fact. And while you're standing there berating yourself, he's found three other things that you really should have taken care of months ago.

What's with you anyway?

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The last normal day

One of the symptoms of not being in your right mind is not knowing it. Yesterday I made the decision that there was nothing more to do - the news has been spread far and wide, and Mom's got her flight reservations out of Mobile. Nothing to do but wait, and I rationalize that going to work is a good way to keep my mind off things.

When you're being stupid, you usually are the last to know.

I've got a number of things to put in line before I go, and it's for damn sure I won't be at work the rest of the week. I already called U in Chicago to back out of being in his wedding on Saturday. He was a stand up guy, I'm in mid-apology and he cuts me off with "Don't worry about it, and don't waste any time talking to me, do what you gotta do, man."

I should have known I was being stupid when I emailed the news to my friends - somehow that just seemed... classless. G called me first thing on Monday, to see how I was - of all my out of town friends, he was the first to ask how they were doing after Katrina hit.

'course I told him they were doing great - so he was where the rest of us were. Stunned out of our reassurance.

To the office, then. I figure there are people who have to know, and so I tell my supervisors and ask them to keep it quiet. I'm quite sure that I don't want people coming up to me all day, and anyway - if I'm going away, I'll need to get some things done.

This seems like a good plan, until the day wears on. I check with HR to make sure of the leave policy for funerals. Which naturally provokes the innocent question, "Who died?" and I ambush our poor HR manager who just stares at me until she realizes I'm not kidding.

I spend most of the day being angry at people for not asking, and being angry at myself for not telling them. D asked me how my folks were doing, "Everything still okay?"

Rather than lie, I told her the truth, and asked her to keep it quiet before trying to go back to work. I must have looked like a crazy person to her. A bad choice was becoming a really bad choice. I'd neglected to notify the people who would have to cover for me, so I opted to do that in the group meeting, dropping my story into their laps - as they all looked back waiting for the punchline.

I kept it together, but it just added to my sense that the day was unraveling. I posted what happened on the intranet just before I went out the door.

Mission accomplished, I was spared the succession of well-wishers for one more day. Tomorrow my co-workers will be getting the news when I'm headed to Milwaukee to pick up mom.

Like that makes sense.

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We're on

Funeral set. Fri a m at ten for visitation. Service at eleven.
Sep 6, 11:50 am

Mom will be on the flight, I'll pick her up. My sister and her family are driving in from New York state to meet us. The plans go down in ink.

Dad's going home, and everything else can just go to hell.

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Phone calls

I don't walk home, I drift. My son's weary and I'm just not good company. I'm remembering the phone relays: Telling dad's brother the news. "Oh no," was all he said, but his tone filled in the blanks. Couldn't find his sister, his younger brother was out, so I left word with his wife.

And Gramma, dear God - more sobs than words - the worst thing I've ever heard.

One after another, the same story - the same shock "But they'd made it through the storm, they were ok..."

They were, I'd explain, but not anymore. Remembering myself telling my friends that very day how fortunate my folks had been - yes, there was water in the house, but the house was still standing. The truck still worked, they had mom's intermittent cell phone. "They're doing great," I had said - during the very hour my dad was dying.

He was clearing some tree branches that had fallen across some power lines. He thought they'd delay the restoration of power to the neighborhood, and nobody was doing anything about it. Mom said she'd told him not to, but anyone who knows my dad, knows that's never going to be the end of it.

It had to be done, it wasn't being done. And that's all my dad needed to know.

Mom was going over to the neighbors when she heard the crash. One of the limbs fell in a way my father didn't expect, and he was thrown to the pavement. Head injury. "He was bad," was all mom said, "I thought he was gone right then."

I'm turning into my yard when that image overcomes me, my dad on his back, eyes open and staring - mom seeing the whole thing. He's 61 and fit, careful, a good person.

Not supposed to be this way. Not by a long shot.

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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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Booking

To mom:

flt info NW5736 Dep MOB wed 9-7 11:25 AM Central
Reach me @ my cell.
-Me

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Out of the blue

Sunday.

Brunch in the morning. Bunch of friends, good time. "Folks are doing well, thanks for asking."

Home, and out. In the car.

I was taking a load of drywall to a nearby dumpster. When dad overhauled my basement- we had a ton of scrap left over, and it's been piled up in my garage for over a year. I never get to it, and every time I see it I think, "the next time dad comes up, he's going to wonder what the hell is wrong with me." Just the thought is motivation.

So I'm in the car, realizing that about three more trips like this and I'll be halfway done. I've already planned my cop-out - the boy will be waking up soon. Dad, of course, would keep doing this until the rock was gone, or the dumpster was full. Me, I'm planning on hitting DQ.

Phone rings. Mom. I miss it - hit the damn button that sends it to voicemail. Looking to call her back, turning out of the parking lot when the phone rings and it's my wife. She's losing it, "Your mom just called, I think your dad died!"

And everything after that just streaks behind me.-until mom calls and gives me the news for real.
There was an accident, something stupid, and he was dead at the scene. The connection is terrible; since Katrina beat hell out of the coast it's a miracle she got through at all. I tell her I'll break the news to the family - she hangs up-

-and the world comes back in a rush.

I'm somewhere on the east side of town. Somewhere in Mississippi, dad is dead, and no one around me has any idea why the guy in the white car is screaming at his steering wheel.

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hi n dri

We r hi n dry, now. ripped out all carpeting n wood floor. Hot n beat. mom

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All ok

All ok. house a disaster but standing. Cars totalled. Will call next week. Mom

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Day one

Am ok. House wet. Call jen. Mom.

It begins with this text message. My wife and I are glued to the TV watching everything go to hell, and it helps us relax.

For the next week, the only reliable communication with the coast will be text messages between cell phones.

Like a lot of people, I'd been comforting myself with the knowledge that my parent's home had survived Hurricane Camille. Survived without any water. I'm guessing this factored into my parent's decision to stay home instead of braving the insanity of Hwy 10.

-And this message was vindication. They'd made it through, and whatever else, I knew they'd manage.

Eleven days later I would be at my father's funeral.

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