nanowritemo 30 / No Jacket required

No Jacket Required / Phil Collins











As we got to the tent, the rabbi stepped aside to allow me to sit. M. went to sit next to me and E, B. and his wife, still having never said a word to me, pushed past to also get a front row seat. I moved in one and gestured for the rabbi’s wife to take a seat too, under the tent. She had given me a hug when she first arrived, but had said nothing. However, she had not stopped crying for a moment.

As I offered her the seat, shock ran over her tear strained face.


“But this is for family.” She whispered to me.


“It’s fine. Sit.” I said, thinking that if any of the twenty to thirty people present dared make comment about letting the very old lady who was clearly the most upset sit in the shade there would be another funeral. She nodded gratefully, took my hand, sat down and cried.


The proceedings went according to plan. Kind of. As he past, Eliot asked the rabbi if he might say a few words. The rabbi nodded his agreement and the performance began. The prayers I presume were stock. I was grateful they were in a language I didn’t know, as most content of organized religion tends to grate on me and get me angry. Then the rabbi started his eulogy.


It began as one might expect, talking about how Mother was accomplished and helped people. How tragic it was that she had to die so young. (She was in her sixties.) After the third or fourth time he said what a shame it was that she would be the end of the line and that no one would be present to carry on her good works, I started to feel a little annoyed. I mean, I was her daughter and I was sitting in the front row directly in front of this man who kept insisting I looked like her. Did anyone there even know what work it was I did? 

Then, it became stranger, as angrily the rabbi ranted about how incompetent the medical profession was that  had allowed my mother to die!  Why had they not caught her cancer earlier? This was a question I wondered about too, but given how my mother’s information was selective, it was hard to fault the doctors.


The rabbi then told a little story.  Several years ago, he began,  my mother had told him that one of her colleagues had suggested she seek psychiatric help. This colleague had told her she was crazy and had concerns for her.  This was a  thought I myself had had, many times, but never voiced.  It seemed rather odd to be doing it in her euology.  As the rabbi went on, he explained how my mother had refused, but the exchange naturally had bothered her.  For the next five minutes,  the rabbi railed at the nerve of this person to suggest such a thing about this wonderful, special, truly unique person who was so dear to him. He went on at length about how he had never met another woman like her and how he had wished to spend as much time with her as possible.  Why I wondered had he shared this with strangers at her funeral?  Had he not considered any professional implications of these stories?  For himself or her?  I believed what he said to be true, though, and if I had not had suspicions about their relationship before, I would have after this. In fact, after the funeral as M, his sister and I went to lunch, it was one of the first questions M’s sister asked.   Three months later, C. who being in the hospital, has not attended the funeral, would call to ask me the question also.


After twenty minutes of hearing how fantastic my mother was, how awful and disrespectful all others were to her and how she was the last of the line and there would be no one to carry on her for her, I was hot, tired and more than ready for the day to be done. As the rabbi talked, mostly I thought of two things, the first was how thankful I was that we were not riding in the same car. The second was about his wife.  She had yet to stop crying.  Her body shook with deep, wracking sobs.  I wondered if she had she heard a word he was saying? I hoped not, really.  Finally, the rabbi wound down and introduced E.


I was curious to know what E. was going to say. Would he reference any of those trips that I had been so found of growing up? Would he give insight as to why he had not called?  Would his words in some way reassure me that if I turned Mother's estate over to him, he would do the right thing by every one, in particular her patients?  For out of everyone, it was her patients I felt for.

My mother did horrible, text book wrong things with me and my friends, but for some reason I did not understand, she had a successful practise.  Again, for qualities that I could not see, I knew that people did love and respect her, not simply the crazy old man ranting at her funeral.  I never professed to understand any of her relationships in the world, but I did know that my feelings and relationship with her was not as hers with others.  And that for those others, there were things which were important.  If it was illusions, they should be kept.  If for them, she was real, all the better they keep those positive images.  I did not and do not believe in the field of psychology.  In my view it is one step above the snake oil salesmen and the placebo.  However, snake oil and placebo's have helped a lot of people.  The simple value of having another human to talk to, cannot and should not be underestimated.  Thus, keeping a particular image of Mother of her professional life seemed important.  

What I really wanted out of the funeral was reassurance that E. would know what to do with her patients. That like her, regardless of his thoughts or treatment of me, there would be a different standard for them.  So I waited as he rose to speak, waiting for the positive images, the sympathy or empathy.

It never came.  In a rambling fashion he talked about his relatives. Cousins of his, long dead and so distant from my mother and I that I had never even heard of their existence. After another fifteen minutes of  the minutia of his family tree, he added that he was proud that my mother was in his family tree, but again, it was a shame that now this branch of the family was dead.
As E. returned to his seat and the rabbi said the next prayer and explained the ritual of dirt throwing to the assembled, I looked at M. We said nothing, though we both knew what I was thinking. I was going to be the executrix of her estate and we were going to have a long haul.


Finished, the rabbi extended his hand for me to rise and Mister stepped forward with the shovel. As I went to reach for it, to toss the first of the dirt into the grave, E. was beside me. He too was reaching for the shovel. For a moment, both E and Mister struggled with it, both their hands gripping the wood. I stepped back, being elbowed while two men fought over a shovel at my mother's funeral seemed like a particularly bad idea.  And as this was not my ritual. I was certainly not going to fight about it.

"I'll take that."  E. was saying.

"It goes first to immediate family."  Mister tried to explain as if E. didn't know.  Of course he knew.  He and I had been toether at at least three other funerals for which this ritual had been performed, and that how many other's had he experienced that we had not shared?

"I'm family."  E. answered.

"It goes to her closest relative first.  Her daughter."  Mister said.

"I'll do it."  E. yanked the shovel.

"No. It goes to S."  Mister replied not letting go.

 After what seemed like an eternity, but was probably mere seconds, it was the rabbi who leaned over quietly and told E to let go, the first shovel was mine. With an older, more authoritative male giving the order, E. did, though still ignoring my presence. Mister handed me the shovel, with a reassuring nod and the process continued.


After my shovel, I stepped aside, standing circumstantially next to the rabbi as I watched everyone present come and shovel in dirt. It was an old crowd. I estimated the average age to be 55-60, and that was not including the rabbi and his wife, who I presumed would skew any age calculation. The process was slow, but finally, the coffin covered and the rabbi gave the signal for the backhoe. The engine started and was immediately followed by a shriek.


“Noooooo.” B. cried, pushing herself around those assembled to stand teetering on the edge of the grave facing the back hoe. “It has to be done by hand!” She insisted and started ranting that by hand was the only acceptable means. “No. No. No. No. I won’t allow this!   This travisty of technology.”

"B. Knock it off and get out of the way."   E. called to his daughter, as did her mother in a nicer way.  She ignored them.

 “I will not let that impersonal  machine do this. It’s not right.” I met H’s eyes across some seats. Her eyebrows were raised in question and she was trying hard not to laugh. B. continued to wail. E. continued to shout to her to ‘knock it off.’ Mister was trying to talk to her quietly.  We caught words, "elderly men"... "heat stroke"... "acceptable"... and the guest, not understanding any of it looked at each other confused as B. continued to wail "Nooooo"  and threaten to throw her body in front of the back hoe.

"This is the funeral I expected."  I whispered to M.  In fact, I had actually expected strangers to show up and identify themselves as long ago husbands or my unknown siblings.  That didn't happen.


“What do we do with her?” The rabbi asked me.


“I don’t know."  I shrugged watching the show.

"Will she listen to you?"  He asked.

"Not a chance."  I shook my head.   "If she won’t listen to her father, you can try. You’re the only one here she might listen to.” I shrugged again.


The rabbi went to her, speaking quietly. It was met with another wail.


“No. Fine. If you won’t do it, I’ll do it myself.” And with her flimsy sandals and sundress, she picked up the shovel and started furiously trying to fill in the 6-foot hole. Personally, I would have let her. But several of the ‘younger’ men in the group were shamed. After a few moments, B. was standing off to the side doing nothing, while five men (M. two guests - husbands I didn't know who surely had not bargined for this, Mister and his helper)  took turns and shoveled the rest of the dirt into the grave. The backhoe never employed.


A quick prayer later and we were finally done. As we stood to go, the rabbi’s wife reached for my hand again.  She was still sobbing.


“I’m so sorry.” She wept. “Your mother was my best friend. I don’t know what I’m going to do without her.” I looked into the red puffy eyes of this ancient women and my eyes started to well. I had never heard my mother say a good word about this woman, and yet here she was, not only the only one in the crowd to shed a tear, but clearly and sincerely distraught. I had no doubt that her words were sincere. It broke my heart.


“My mother spoke of you often.” I said to her, my voice cracking. “I know you meant a lot to her.” This lie came easily as I saw the pleased look in the damp red eyes before me. I hugged her, whispering for her to take care of her self and walked away.


It would be the one thing that haunts me about Mother’s funeral. The one thing that can still make me cry. How upset the rabbi’s wife was, more than anyone else at that funeral. Her best friend really her enemy. As I walked away from her it felt like when you leave a pet to be euthanized or a woman at  a shelter. I felt helpless and pained.


Back in the parking lot, H. explained she needed to go, but M’s sister would go to lunch. G. said she would call and  JP finally came over.


“Well, I think your mother is happy now.” She said, sounding nervous, but trying to be upbeat. I wondered why she was bothering to speak to me at all. She’d not called for a month, let alone the past twenty four hours,  this close family friend.  Still, I did feel an obligation to be polite. She had been the one to call me initially to tell me Mother was in the hospital. But she had not held up.  She had not kept me in the loop as I had requested.  My last three calls to her had gone unreturned.  She'd not called me when the news of Mother's death came and she was now headed to the cousins. “I hope we can stay friends.” She said to me, finally meeting my eyes.


“I don’t think so.” I said softly, I hoped without the harshness that I felt for most of those present. Later M. and his sister told me I had been too nice. JP merely nodded with what seemed like understanding and walked away.


Then W. came up with B. at the hip. They were just coming to say good bye. Except W. was still W.


“Are you going to E’s?” He asked, I'm sure innocently and clueless.


“I wasn’t invited.” I answered, feeling no compulsion to be gentle with him as I had with JP.


“What? Of course you are.” B. protested, but then looked unsure. As W. made the joke, B. trotted back to her mother exchanged a few words and returned. “You can come if you want to.” She offered, not realizing she had just confirmed the invite had not otherwise been there.


“No, that’s okay. I think it’ll be easier for you all to talk about me if I’m not there.” I smiled sweetly as M’s sister started to cough.


B. stammered as she tried to deny this, realized she couldn’t, realized things had been transparent and she had no where to go. Finally she ended up with a “See ya,” and she and W. scurried off.


“Wow.” M’s sister said to me as we found ourselves alone. “Screw them all sweetie, you’re part of our family now.” She gave me a hug. Over lunch, the three of us agreed unanimously. Not only did I have to accept the job as executrix of the will, but we should stop at the condo on the way home and change the locks. We did.

nanowritmo 29 / Invisible touch

Invisible Touch / Genesis











The next to arrive was M’s sister. Another surprise. Then G. who gave me a hug. Then the Rabbi. With his arrival it was back to the office. As we sat next to each other across the desk from the cemetery’s management, Mister, standing in a corner and our spouses standing behind us, the process was reviewed once again:



The rabbi, followed by me then everyone else would walk from the parking lot to the grave site. There was a tent sent up and under it chairs. I and M. were to sit in the front row. The rabbi would do particular prayers, perform a eulogy, then M. could speak, if he wished. He did not. The rabbi would say another prayer, he would throw a handful or shovel of dirt onto the coffin. I would throw a shovel of dirt onto the coffin. M. would throw a shovel of dirt onto the coffin. Everyone present who wished would throw a handful or shovel full of earth onto the coffin. Then the rabbi would say another prayer while the cemetery people would shovel enough dirt to cover the coffin, unless the coffin was already covered by those present. The rabbi would give the signal for the back hoe, they would fill in the grave. One short prayer and the proceedings would be over. There was no ritual for departure.


We all agreed we understood. It was creepy though, being in the small office with the rabbi and his wife. She looked older, frailer, but he had not changed a bit from my over twenty year old memory. A thought which caused me to consider was that good or bad that at 70 and 90 he looked the same? I wondered if I had been wrong about my ideas of a salacious relationship between my mother and this man, nearly thirty years her senior. But later all would comment on the odd way he stared at me.


From meeting in that small office until he was commenting out the window of the car as he was leaving the rabbi had one litany for me.


“You look so much like your mother.” No one else thinks so. “You must come see me.” I didn’t think so.


His last words were actually to M. “Make her come see me.” He demanded as the car was pulling away. They would be the only words he ever spoke to my husband.


“I can’t and won’t ‘make’ her do anything.” M. called after him, as his sister, who was then standing between us, added, “Okay, can you say ‘ew’? This was the most bizarre thing ever.” and I felt myself relax as my own thoughts had just been validated by someone who knew nothing of my back story.


When we exited the cemetery office, more people had arrived including the cousins. H and M’s sister were off to the side conversing as best they could. I signed across the parking lot to H. that we’d be right there as I was waylaid by G.


G. introduced me to the four or five people I didn’t know. All seemed to be Mother’s patients. She then introduced me to Janet, who seemed to not know why the introduction was being performed, as we each mumbled, 'nice to meet you.' G. then told me that most everyone had been invited to the cousins for an after event. G herself had gotten a telephone invite the night before from W. Janet was unsure if she was going, she had gotten the call from JP. The cousins themselves were in the process of making the rounds handing out maps to their house. G. offered me one.


I glanced at it. The full impact of this would not dawn on me until hours later. What registered at that moment were three things: 1. The cousins no longer lived in the place I last knew and no one had ever told me they’d moved. 2. I glanced around, all the people holding photocopied maps had not called me. 3. The cousins had made no attempt to reach out to me as I tried to make my way back to the two people who were there for me and had never met Mother. I folded the map into a small square which I toyed with in my sweaty hands.


“Are you going?” I asked G.


“No. Are you crazy, I don’t want to go hang out with W. and JP and I certainly don’t want to drive two hours out of my way to do it.” She snorted.


I nodded at L. as I crossed to H. and M’ sister, M. silent beside me. I’d no sooner got there when B. was by my side. She wore a flimsy sundress to which I thought, she really needs a slip and large funnel like hat. She looked like the pictures of Chinese peasants we used to see in National Geographic. In her hands was a stack of photocopies that I presumed was the map and expected this to be her invite. It wasn’t.


“I want to speak.” She demanded of me. “I have this poem I wrote, and there are things I want to say…”


“I’m sorry, you can’t.” I answered her, my voice sounding tired even to me. She sputtered like a child and I thought she was going to stamp her foot. We went back and forth like this for a few moments until Mister was calling the party to line up.


Having never been to an Orthodox funeral before, M. was filling his sister in on the process. H. signed to me that all would be fine and we began to line up. I could hear B. whining to someone, I presumed her father, who still hadn’t spoken to me, saying that I was being unfair and unreasonable. The advice was for her to take a run at me again and this time demand her wishes.


A second later, as we were in the funeral procession, she was beside me again.  A 50 year old whining peasant.


“Why won’t you let me speak, that’s not fair. I want…”


“B. this is not my choice.” Angry, I turned to her, my voice going low as it does when fury takes over. “My mother’s wishes were to have an Orthodox Jewish ceremony. That means women aren’t ALLOWED to speak. I can’t speak!  Lord knows, this is NOT my politics, I don't agree with it, I don't like it and I have no idea why my mother wanted this. But she did. She was very clear about it to me and others. So that’s the way it’s going to be.” I hissed as B. stood blinking. L. had fallen inline behind me and for a moment our eyes met. For the first time, I thought I saw sympathy.


I turned to face front and could hear B trotting back telling people, “Oh, it’s not me, she won’t let speak. It’s against the rules….” This was rather annoying since of all the "family" present, I was the one who dogmatically refused to be a part of any organized religion, claimed no ethnic affliations, and was considered the evil and ignorant pagan.   A second later B was there again. “Can I distribute these?” She asked, holding out the photocopies that I had thought were maps. I saw then they were copies of either her poem or what she wanted to read. I nodded assent and she happily started handing them out down the line, starting behind me.


Finally we were walking to the grave site.

nanowritmo 28 / Chasing cars

Eyes Open / Snow Patrol













Only one other call came the day my mother died. Of course it wasn’t from her attorney, for whom the first message merely asked him to call me. When hours later he didn’t the second message explained it was my understanding that he had the payment for the funeral which was to take place the next day. I left the dollar amount and asked that he call to confirm he got the message and would meet me a significant time before the event. He didn’t call.



The only other call came from B. She told me that she’d talked to her family and she thought I should know that they were planning a little gathering at their house after the funeral. I questioned, weren’t they still living outside of Boston? They were and the fact that most people would be going to Providence from Connecticut didn’t seem to be an issue. Out of politeness I asked if there was something they needed from me, and B. told me she didn’t think so, as they didn’t even know she was calling me. It had struck her to do so only as an afterthought.


The next day was a bright hot summer day. I donned black and we took the hour or so ride to the cemetery, where Mister was waiting as promised. Though we were about an hour early, everything was set up, including a tent and bottles of water on ice. Mister ran through again, what would happen, how it would all work, who would walk where, etc. I had been nervous that the Attorney wasn’t going to show up, but he did. Not talking to me, but to Mister. though the check was for the correct amount.


I had not told anyone yet of my plans to relinquish my role as executor, and now I was having doubts. B’s father, E would be the one who would take over, but he hadn’t even called me upon hearing of Mother’s death. Further, neither he nor his wife had checked in with me about hosting a gathering after the funeral. In fact, it appeared I wasn’t even invited. M. and I had talked on the ride up about what to do. The thought of taking over the task overwhelmed me. But my trust in my ‘family’ was fast dwindling.


I couldn’t shake the feeling that all of the people I had grown up with all communicated and interacted without me. That was ridiculous I told myself. I had spent most of my youth and even into my adulthood wishing these people had been more involved. Wishing I could reach out to these people regarding some of my mother’s craziness. I had been sure that if they knew they could help, but I was too embarrassed to ask. They weren’t around enough to see, to know, I couldn’t drag them into our life. At least that’s what I told myself.


I told myself that the cousins would arrive and come talk to me then. It would be then, in person that E and his wife would invite me to their house for the ‘after party’ along with whomever was in attendance. They probably had no idea that the people who attended would mostly be from Connecticut. I felt bad for them, who was going to drive an hour plus East, to then drive an hour plus North for snacks and then two hours South again to get home.


As M and I sat discussing this in the cemetery, waiting. The attorney sat in his car, still not saying a word to me.


“What do we do with him?” I asked M. “Allegedly he’s been taking care of Mother’s affairs until now, but now it’ll come to me. G. says he has her checkbook and stuff and God knows what else.”


“Regardless of what you decided to do, you need to get it back.” M. said.


“Yeah, but…how? He won’t even talk to me.”


Another car pulled into the yard. It had Rhode Island plates and was clearly a person affiliated with the cemetery. The Attorney got out of his car and spoke to the official person.


“We should investigate.” I said watching the scene. M. agreed.


The new arrival was in fact the administrator of the cemetery who had paperwork for both the Attorney and I to sign and was the recipient of another check, which fortunately the Attorney had. We concluded the transaction in the cemetery’s little still with the Attorney not speaking to me. At that point I was starting to get angry.


“Excuse me. I believe you have paper work, such as checkbooks for my mother?” I asked, stepping in front of the Attorney as we exited the building. I had successfully blocked his path so that he couldn’t go down the few steps to the parking lot and car. M. with a perfect tag team move had stepped behind him and was perfect 6 foot, angry looking wall.


“I have some paper work of hers at my office.” The attorney answered after a glance over his shoulder. If I had been a mob boss or holding a gun, it would have looked like a gangster movie. However, I was a 5 foot woman all in black, including a head scarf (Orthodox rituals, married women must cover their heads). I imagine we looked ridiculous.


“Okay then, when can I pick it up?”


“Whenever…” He tried to push past me. A move that notched my anger up and allowed polite to abandoned.


“Okay, then we’ll be there tomorrow at 10 am. I want everything you have of my mothers. Is that clear.”


The attorney paused clearly taken aback. “I can’t at 10.” He said rather indignantly.


“Okay then what time between 7 am and 7 pm will you be there for us to get it.”


He opened his mouth to protest. M. his arms across his chest as mine went out to reach for both sides of the railings down the stairs. The attorney would have to literally come into physical contact with me if he wanted to move from the spot.


“I’ll be there at 9.” He answered annoyed.


“Okay, so we are clear. We will meet you at your office, in ---- at 9:00 am tomorrow at which time you will have ready and turn over any thing you have of my mothers. Is that correct?”


“Yes.”


“Then it’s clear and you understand me.”


“Yes.”


“And you’ll see me tomorrow when?”


“9:00 am at my office.”


Only then did I step aside, allowing him to pass. M. and I returned to our spot on a bench. M. chuckling, me stewing.


I waved as W. showed up. He had aged since the last time I saw him. He was still round and overweight, with hair a little too long and a mustache, but now instead of looking like a Geek, he more resembled a weeble. He was alone, but that was not surprising. His wife would have to work, it was a Monday and his children in school. He came up to M. and I and sat down on the bench opposite us.


We had a moment conversation about the weather and then on to his side real estate business. His main job was still teaching social studies. I could sense that M. was getting annoyed, but this was W. He never had good sense or taste.


One day about a year after we had become friends, he knocked on the door of our apartment. It was across the hall and one floor up from his. He was standing in our doorway a pillow case over his head and a flaming cross newspaper ablaze in his hand.


Mother and I stood in the door way stunned. This was nothing we found funny. At the same time, his round little form was doing a little jig that looked like he desperately needed a bathroom. Before us as he shouted, “Oh no! oh no. Help me put this out! Help me put this out!” as the building’s smoke alarms started to go off. Letting him in, he ran to the bathroom with the bits of burnt paper fluttering after him and dropped the cross unceremoniously into the toilet.


“Well, that’s not what I thought would happen.” He said to us, who then stood with the same stunned look in the bathroom door rather than the front door.


I had stopped listening to W. when I noticed another car pull into the lot. H. H. was our Deaf friend from Boston, who was studying herself to be a rabbi. I explained this to W. and stood, saying we should go great her.


“Oh, I didn’t know you had friends, S.” W. chuckled as I stood. At any other time I might have sneered back at him. Made some joke, known he was teasing. But sweltering in the heat waiting to see who was going to show up for my mother’s funeral, with out having received one call from any of our so called family or family friends, I couldn’t find the humor. I walked away.

Nanowritmo 27 / La Vie Boheme

Rent Soundtrack









I checked the voice mail when we got home more out of habit than expectation of a message. The automated voice told me there was one. One, I snorted, and punched the sequence of numbers for the automated voice to tell me the call had come in at 2:30. Instinctively, I checked the clock 4:30. No wonder I was tired.



I cringed as I recognized the voice of the message: the rabbi. His tone was chastising and he was one of the few people who called me by my full name that I hated.


“S--? Why didn’t you call me? I heard your mother died this morning and I didn’t find out until 2, this afternoon. You should have called. Anyway, I’m calling because I want you to give me a ride to the funeral tomorrow. Call me and let me know what time you’ll pick me and my wife up.” He rattled off a number and hung up.


For the first time that day, I burst into tears as M. blinked confused.


“I can’t do that.” I gasped, after haltingly explaining the call. “I hate him. I get car sick if I ride in the back. It’s a two hour ride, from here, and another hour to get him.” I was nearly hyperventaling. “ I can’t make a 90 year old man sit in the back, or his wife. And there’s only one seat in the front.” I was now leaned over, with my head between my knees. “I can’t do that. Not at her funeral… I can’t.”


M. tried to be comforting.


“Just tell him no.”


“I can’t!”


“Tell him the car is full.”


“I can’t!”


“Why not?”


“He’s a rabbi, that’s like lying to a priest. You can’t do that.”


“Then we’ll take him.”


“I can’t.”


The conversation circled in this futile way for several minutes until I caught my breath and was just sniveling. Ultimately it was decided that a white lie was in order. I would tell the rabbi that we were going that night and staying over to take care of business. Not a total lie, not taking him would take care of some business: my sanity.


As it turned out, it was unnecessary. By the time I called him back, he had arranged for another ride since I had not gotten back to him soon enough.

Nanowritemo 26 / these hands

Spirit / Jewel











While I have often heard the expression, ‘his eyes were like saucers’; I had never actually seen it before M’s face as we entered Mother’s condo. We’d traveled the five feet from the door, down the hall to the living room. That was where the path stopped.



The room was blanketed with a foot and half of stuff, mostly paper. But every surface was covered, piles had shifted, fallen and then been piled on again. I’d seen it before. M. had not.


“Is this what you grew up with?” He asked, pale and his voice horse. M grew up in a normal household where everything had a place. A house where even the mundane paper and detritus of life, like newspapers and mail, had a home squirreled away out of sight. We often argued as he complained our house was out of control and I looked about blankly not having a clue what he was talking about, seeing only a little pile of mail.


“Pretty much.” I said with a resigned sigh.


With a shake of my head, I climbed over piles and wove my way around on the foot spots to get to the upstairs where I knew there was a lock box. It was where I thought it was and fortunately, not locked. In it was the birth certificate. Given the piles of paper everywhere, I think M. thought it was magically that I had found it.


Following the wire from the wall, we located the phone and I called Mister, the funeral director. He actually sounded happy to speak to me. We took care of our business and then he indicated one more thing, with the same pregnant pause as earlier. What had B. done now, I wondered.


“Do you know Rabbi J?” He asked cautiously.


Rabbi J. I knew him. I despised him. He was the man that made me consider the concept that a person could be evil. I had spent many dinners at his house listening to him preach and say horrible things about everyone. Once, as a belligerent teenager, my mother tricked me into going to talk to him. She told me we were going shopping. Then suddenly, she just had to drop something off, it would only be a minute. She wanted me to come in with her, and I did, and then I was in Rabbi’s J’s office being told to sit. She left without a word. I was of course mad about the deception, but then stuck in the man’s office. I remember feeling I was locked in, but I doubt that was the case. And despite my mother’s opinion of me, I was too polite to simply walk out and too stunned. I remember the conversation vividly though. For over an hour and half I was yelled at about my behavior, my lack of respect for my mother and him, though I didn’t know where that was coming from. He cited so called behaviors of mine that I was unaware I had ever done. He spoke of “us’s” and ’them’s”. Us being those who followed him and them, being all others. “They” should be used, could be abused and it didn’t matter, even if it was illegal, as long as you weren’t caught. I was not dismissed until I repeated back the doctrine that I was being bombarded with. I was appalled.


I left his office that day more furious then I had ever been before or since. I told Mother I was not only never going to dinner again, I was never going to speak to him again and if she EVER blind sided me like that again, I would never speak to her again. I meant it and she knew it.


“Yes.”


“He’d like to perform the service. He is an Orthodox Rabbi…. What do you think?”


I don’t know how the affiliation between him and my family started. I just knew he’d been around forever, and my mother adored him. Before the discussion in his office, I was dragged to his house for dinners and holidays. After, Mother still went to visit, dropped everything to take his calls, wrote him notes.


I always suspected something not quite kosher in their relationship. He was married with several children and grandchildren. And though his wife was in the picture, there were things that didn’t add up. Mother could only call him at certain times. When I totaled my first car, we located Mother at his house. She was giving his grandchildren a bath. My mother who appeared to lack any maternal instinct, whose own child at that point was old enough to have kids. Though I had a concussion and four stitches in my knee, she told me she had stuff to do there and my best friend’s family could take care of me.


“Um… I think my mother would be fine with that.” I answered trying to think of her, not me.


Mother visited him weekly at least. She’d bring little presents, often telling me she had to sneak them in because they were things he liked to eat, but his wife wouldn’t let him have. While Mother also visited with his wife, drank tea with her and ate dinner, she bad mouthed the woman at ever turn. Usually she offered derogative comments about the wife’s treatment of the rabbi. I, on the other hand, really liked his wife. She made those early visits bearable, was a charming woman, kind and quick to be helpful My one complaint of the woman was that she was a traditional wife, horribly subservient to her husband, who was quick to point out the lesser status of women.


I never understood my mother’s acceptance of the Rabbi. She was an independent, professional woman. She was divorced and in a career when that was almost unheard of for a woman. She raised a child as a single parent. She was a smart woman. Why she cared for this arrogant, sexist, prejudiced old man was beyond me. He was twenty years her senior.


“There is just one thing…” Mister said to me, a little hesitant, but not as much as our earlier conversation. “He’s…well, do you know him? He’s…”


“The man is older than dirt.” I filled in for Mister. It was true. At that point, the Rabbi was in his 90’s. When I declared I would never speak to him again he was in his 60’s. It made Mother’s relationship with him all that much more creepy to me. Still, this was her event.


“Ah, yes.” Mister answered with relief. “I’m thinking we should put up a tent at grave side, and maybe have some water. It’s supposed to get up into the high 90’s tomorrow and we’re scheduled for 1:00 in the afternoon. Is that okay?”


“Yes.” I said with a smile, thankful Mister was a thinking man.


“Good. We’re all set then.” Again I heard the smile in his voice. We finalized some meeting places and cost and he said he’d see me the next day.


I had felt a little badly that I had not thought to call the Rabbi. My suspicions of Mother’s relationship to him might have been unconfirmed, but regardless of whatever that relationship actually was, she was involved with the man’s life. My guilt was short lived however, as I not only despised the man so intensely, but as I reminded myself, I was the last to know. Surely, he knew at 7 am along with the rest of the free word.

nanowritmo 25 / My Life

No Angel  / Dido















“Ma’m… I um… There’s um…one more thing…” Mister stammered as I frowned into the phone.


“Yes?”


“I have you listed as the next of kin…do you have ...ah, other relatives? Um” The frown became a scowl, braced for what was coming. “A B.... she’s…”


“B… yes a distant cousin. …Why do you ask?” My voice was tight and terse. I felt bad about this. How could he possibly know B. unless she had contacted him? And if she had, that was not his fault. I was expecting to hear that she had been in touch with him, but not what came next. “Well, um your… cousin, called this morning…”


“What?!” I interrupted starting to fume. How had she heard that Mother died and why didn’t she call me?  And how had she known to call him?


“Um, your cousin B. called this morning and was quiet insistent. She wants to have a grave side quartet play…”


“NO.” I answered with a fierceness usually reserved for bad dogs and small misbehaving children.


“I thought so.” I could hear the smile in his voice and it made me feel bad that my reaction had been so abrupt.


“My mother’s wishes to me were very clear and correct me if I’m wrong, but an Orthodox Jewish ceremony would NOT have a grave side band.” I was trying to be softer, more humane, but I could here the furious edge still in my voice.


“No m’am. It most definitely would not.” I could definitely hear the smile, though he was clearly trying as hard to mask it as I was trying to be civil. “I tried to explain to your cousin this morning…”


“She called you? About this? This morning!?” The pieces of this puzzle were falling into place.


"Yes M’am.” The smile replaced by the sound of sympathy. I think I might have growled. “She called the first time about nine am. I told her I’d have to speak to you and you would have to make the arrangements.”


"First time....Nine…am?” I repeated, looking at a clock that now said 12:15. She had not been one of the three messages. Maybe she’d called while I was on the phone? Maybe she didn’t have my number? “I’ll take care of it.” I snapped. I hoped Mister understood that my anger was not directed at him.


“Thank you.” He answered again this time with clear relief.


"I’m sorry.” I added then. “If my cousin should call you again, tell her to call me instead. And I’m sorry to have you in the middle of this.” Fury was now fighting with embarrassment.


“Not a problem M’am.” He clearly smiling now. “I’ll talk to you in a few hours with that info.”


I thanked him and hung up. There were no waiting messages.




Trying to have some space between my conversation with Mister and B. I decided it was best to call the others who had insisted I notify them as soon as possible.  Clearly JP knew, and the 'nurse friend Jenny".  No calls from either of  them.


I returned G.’s call, and got her machine. I left a long message thanking her for calling me and providing the blow by blow of the events of the day. I told her I’d call back later.


Next, I called W. I was dreading it. He was the one that I thought it would be hard to tell and I had anticipated he would be very upset.


“Hi W?” I said into the phone starting to tear up. “I’m sorry to say this, I just learned Mother passed away. You wanted me to call you as soon as I knew.”


“Oh Hi. Yeah. I know. I got a call this morning.” He was not sounding the least bit upset. His words however, knocked the wind from me. “I got a call about 9 ish.”  Did everyone in the world know but me? I couldn’t even speak to ask who had called him. “You know, I have my real estate license and I know your mother would want me to handle the sale of the condo. Well, you probably have other stuff to do today, but call me when your set, okay? Oh, I have to go. Bye.” And he was gone.


I took a few deep breaths, relaying the conversation to M. He snorted, his anger growing with my stun. There was only one person left who I had promised to tell.


I called C. C was another woman of my mother’s age who lived in town. Not exactly a patient and not exactly a family friend. I was never clear what C and my mother’s relationship was. I knew C. came to Mother for professional advice. But I also knew Mother talked to C and that C was tactlessly forthright. In fact, C. was the only person I had ever heard, turn to my mother and tell her to cut the shit. Growing up, C gave me birthday presents of things I truly wanted and enjoyed: Bubble gum, which gave way to nail polish, then gift certificates. C. nodded when I started dating R, agreeing that we were all wrong for each other, but telling me I had to learn lessons for myself and she would support that. I loved C.


Someone at her house told me she was not home. I could reach her at the same local hospital my mother had started in. They gave me a room number. I called with concern. I had no idea why she was in the hospital. After assuring me she was going to be just fine, but not telling me what was wrong,  C. told me she too, already had heard the news of Mother’s passing. Hours earlier.


“You are NOT thinking of taking over her condo and coming back to this Godforsaken place are you?” She asked.


“No. Not at all.” I answered.


“Good. Might’ve done your Mother good too, to get out. Might have made her less crazy.” I smiled. “Well, sorry kiddo, I’m not going to make it to the funeral. But you hang tough. You’re a good one. I’m proud of you.”


“Thanks.” I said tearful as we hung up.


I wasn’t sure what had upset me. C’s words? Mother’s death? The fact that EVERYONE knew about it hours before me? I had said to everyone, I would probably be the last to know. But I didn’t expect that no one would try to tell me.


Turning upset to anger, a skill that I had honed for years. I wiped my eyes and dug out B’s number.


“You called the funeral home this morning?” I asked after identifying myself. “May I ask how you knew she had died two hours before I did?” I asked snidely.


Realizing she had probably done a faux pas, she started back peddling, the story shifting slightly with each breath until she concluded that it was coincidental.


“I tried to call you Mom this morning, and got the news.” She finally settled on, realizing that telling me people had called her was not good.


“I see. So you decided the first call should be to the funeral parlor to change the arrangements to what you wanted?” I knew I was not being nice, but I didn’t think the situation exactly warranted it.


B. stammered again, now yammering on about how nice it would be and how special, and wanting to travel down memory lane about how wonderful Mother was. I was not inclined at that time. In fact, Mother had never been so wonderful to me. My suspicions that she had been telling people for years how terrible I was, seemed to be being confirmed given that she’d been dead for hours and no one had called.


M. made a gesture to the clock. It was now going on 1. We needed to go find her birth certificate.


“There will be no music. She made her wishes about what she wanted very clear and that’s that.


“Well, what exactly did she say, because I was thinking it would be nice if…”


“B. I’m doing what she asked. I don’t have time or interest in debating it with you.” I said sharply. “Does your family know?” I asked, then decided I didn’t want to know. Deep down, I already did know. Of course they knew. B. wouldn't have called the funeral parlour before calling her father.  I went on before she had chance to answer. “If they don’t. I would appreciate it if you could tell them and tell them to feel free to notify anyone they see fit, considering everyone else is doing it. I need to take care of some arrangements.  I'll call you back with details as I know them.”


Probably sensing the ice was thinning by the second, B. merely agreed.

nanowritmo 24 / R E S P E C T

A Natural Woman and other hits / Aretha Franklin







The second call had come in about 10 minutes after the first. It was from the day nurse on Mother’s wing. It was considerably nicer than the first. A weepy voice, filled with concern spoke into the machine.


“Hi, this is Alice your mom’s nurse. I know someone else was going to call you, but I just wanted to say I’m sorry. You call me if you need anything.”

And the third call, which came in thirty minutes later, about five minutes before we had walked in was G.


“I’m sorry to do this on the phone, but I don’t think you know. I know you don't know, you didn't call me. Your mom passed away this morning. I just heard. I was talking to Jenny, you’re mom’s nurse friend. JP had just called her, and she called me. I asked if anyone had called you and she said she didn’t know. She said, she just talked to JP and your mom died this morning about 5 am.  I said, Ohmygod, no one's called S.  I knew, no one had called, because you PROMISED me, as soon as you heard something, you’d call me. You said you’d call no matter what time it was. And I knew you would. And you didn’t call. And I know you said if I heard first to call you, because maybe no one would tell you. I didn’t believe it, but… you didn’t call me, so I know you didn’t know.  I'm sorry.  Call me.” I smiled into the phone.



I got off the phone, told M. the facts and we blinked at each other, not sure exactly what to do next. I realized I had been counting on the idea that whomever from the institution who would officially notify me would know how to get the ball rolling. I knew the funeral parlor and the arrangements, but the how’s were a little shaky. Her residence was Connecticut. She had died in Massachusetts. She was to be buried in Rhode Island.


After a brief discussion, I lit on the idea to call L. Surely, as the person who ran the institution she’d have the knowledge of what to do and as a family friend, she would understand. However, I didn’t have a way to reach her. So, I called the desk and the nice woman who left me a message.

The woman was friendly, sympathetic and sincere. She told me how sorry she was. She would be the last one to say those words aside from the funeral director. Ironic to me that it was the two people I didn’t know, who were the most considerate.

Unfortunately L. was not in the building. At first I thought that meant that she didn’t know the news. However, with a sinking feeling I learned that she had been called at 5 am with the news. Had come in, made calls, though clearly not to me and had already left. The desk nurse apologized and started making lame excuses. She suggested I contact the funeral director, as they usually knew what to do as well. I was very grateful.


My next call was to the funeral home, to a man who’s name I can’t remember, but  whom I will never forget. Mister seemed as grateful to hear from me as I was that he was prepared for my call. We shared another mutual exhale of relief when my understanding of my mother’s wishes and his understanding, matched.


My mother wanted a strict Jewish Orthodox funeral. This meant several things:


1. The process and materials were simple. A plan pine box, the body wrapped in plan white cloth. In her case, she had also decided that the entire ceremony would take place grave side.


2. The burial happened as soon as humanly possibly, preferably in less than 24 hours. This was some of my urgency in knowing what to do and who to call. Also some of my annoyance as I presumed that L. knew this also; however as she had not called to tell me of my mother’s death, her consideration of me, and in my opinion her respect for Mother was clear.

3. The ceremony was proscribed by religion. An orthodox rabbi performed set prayers, in set order and said a few words. Only men whom he called on could add anything to the verbal portion. By that, it was not men in the grand sense of humanity, but in the literal, biological sense. The only people allowed to speak had to have a Y chromosome.


Mister explained I need not worry about arrangements. He would have Mother moved from one state to the next, his people were on the way. My role was to show up at the cemetery, provide payment for services, sit quietly during the ceremony. The end of which, I, as the nearest and due to blood lines consider only relative, would throw the first handful of dirt onto the coffin. All present if they so decided would throw their handful or shovel as they preferred.


A small backhoe would be standing by to finish the filling, another prayer would be said and the proceedings concluded. I had no questions.

Mister then explained he had some standard questions. Most of which I could easily answer. But then came questions I had no idea about: Where was my grandfather born? I had no idea. I’d never met him. I didn’t know his name. Mister explained that this information could be found on my mother’s birth certificate. A document that would also need to be copied and given to him for the states.


It was not in the “Will and Important Papers” file. I was fairly certain that it was in the fire box, in Mother’s condo. Two miles from her office, two minutes from where we had just spent four hours traveling to and from. We were going to need to take the trip again. I explained the situation and told Mister I’d call him back in a few hours with the needed info.


This was fine, but Mister hesitated. I thought we had covered everything, but clearly there was something else, something that the man was very uncomfortable about.

nanowritmo 23 / A minor

Songs in A minor / Alicia Keys













When we got home that night, I called G. and after months of telling her not to worry, that night I told her I thought she should visit Mother. I didn’t think Mother would live through the week. G. had seen her the day before and made the decision to try to go the next day. After her granddaughter’s birthday, however, G’s franticness was less severe.


M. and I also talked that night, not only about mother and the visit, but also E. and his wife, funeral arrangements, and the will. We both wished we had an actual copy of Mother’s will. I think we both feared some new surprises; every visit there was always something. In the conversation the day before, she had mentioned that weeks before she had instructed JP to move and rearrange office files. She indicated that among other things she had requested JP take her current office files to JP’s family barn. I had hoped she was confused as I was certain that was not legal. Still, the thought that Mother had spoken the truth had pushed the scales on my own nervousness about taking charge of her estate.


We decided that the next morning, we’d take a ride to Mother’s office and check on things. We could verify if the files had been moved. Mother had also suggested a few more places her will could be, and one never knew, it was worth the look.


Sunday morning we up at 6 am, our normal get up hour. Usually, we’d lay in bed refusing to move at least out of stubbornness, but that morning we arose. We were up, we had grocery shopping and laundry to do. The trip to Mother’s office, while only taking 10 minutes once there would take almost four hours round trip travel.


There was good news and bad in mother’s office. She was telling the truth, the two lateral files that contained her patient files and office accounts were missing. I would have been hysterical if I hadn’t believed that I at least knew where they were. However, there was also a file, not there last time I looked, clearly labeled "Will and Important Papers."


The date indicated it should be the most recent copy and as anticipated it named me as Executrix. If I was unable or unwilling to serve in this role, the task would fall to cousin E. I heaved a deep sigh.


Things would be okay. I’d handle Mother’s funeral. I’d talk with E. He held not one, but two doctorate degrees. He had connections. He’d know what to do with Mother’s office, and I could tell him what I knew and I knew he would do the right thing and be able to do so with less complication than I could. What did I know?


For the first time in months, I felt peaceful during the long ride home. We had a plan and I thought it was a good plan. And I could handle my role.


From Mother’s we had done the errands, rushing through the grocery store to get it over with and home in hopes of completing our long ‘do list.’ As M. brought the bags in from the car, I checked the voice mail. This was standard operating procedures.


The automated voice told me I had three messages. I frowned. This was a lot for a Sunday. I had a feeling I knew what they were about. The first had arrived around 10 am, I looked at the clock it read 11. The message was curt.


“Hello, this is Ms. Jones at The ---- Assisted Living Facility. If you want the message contact Atty B.” Mother’s attorney.


“My mother died this morning.” I told M matter of factly as he entered carrying the last of the bags.

nanowritmo 22 / You can checkout any time you like, but you can never leave

Hotel California / Eagles









After the dinner fiasco, I was a little jaded. When Mother would tell me E and his wife asked of me, I'd snort and didn’t believe it. I'd express sympathy for their youngest daughter L. and never tried to make contact again. Though I also believed that most of my negative experience was due to the wife. She'd never been nice even to her own children. So, while hurt and disappoint and certainly disenchanted I still believed E and the kids to be 'good people'. I had just the realization I was not 'their people.’


The last time I saw Mother, E and his wife also visited. It was definitely the start of a path.


It was Saturday, late July. M. and I went to visit Mother in the nursing home. The nice nurse was at the desk and looked at me suspciciously.

When I walked into Mother’s room, she was on the floor, babbling incoherently. Grasping up at me, she kept saying “Blue, Blue…”


I had no idea what she was trying to say and she had ironically, since being sick, she'd gained too much weight for me to get her into the bed myself. I got the nurse and we got her settled and her brain fog started to clear. We talked about nothing for a while, until the nurse called me to the phone.


The phone? No one I knew, would know to call me there. No one I knew would even consider it. No one knew the name of the facility except maybe G?

“Hello?” I answered at the nurses station, unable to fathom the call.


“Hi!” I recognized the cheery, clueless voice of B.“How are you?” She asked.


“Okay.” I answered tersely.


“So, what are you up to?”


I’m standing at the nurse station, taking up their phone. I was not happy.


“Why did you call me here? How did you even know I was here? What do you want?” I asked tersely, embarrasse,  trying to focus, and not merely be angry.


“Oh, I was just calling to check on your mom, and they said you visiting, so I thought I’d say Hi.”


I was speechless for a second. How could she, then a woman in her late forties at least, be so self centered to not realize she was calling a business to have a chat ? Or that if I was there, it was to visit my mother, not to catch up with 10 years of no contact with her.


“Call me later at home if you want.” I snapped and rattled off the number. She seemed still not to be aware. “I need to hang up now.” I answered and hung up on her, apologizing to the nurse at the desk, who looked completely confused.


Mother was more alert when I returned from the phone call, and asked about it. I told her it was B. and she rolled her eyes and shook her head. We joked for a few minutes about B. “the artist”  who had never exactly joined the conventional world. We were back talking about trivialities, when B’s folks, E and his wife appeared in the doorway. I was thinking, this was definitely not my day.


E and his wife stayed about an hour. It was a painful visit. E. bounded around the room, refusing a chair. He spoke with the slightly too loud, too jovial air of someone uncomfortable and avoiding particular topics. He talked about the weather, the color of the walls, all as if he were delivering the funniest of jokes. His wife, on the other hand, fussed on the edge of the bed, engaging in her own conversation. She shouted at Mother as if she were deaf, annunciating words and choosing her words carefully as if she were talking to an imbecile. I was biting my tongue trying not to speak.  Mother was ignoring her.


What did come out of this visit, was just how little E and his wife knew. Mother would ask a question. They would flounder. I would answer. I was pleased that I could understand my mother, know what she referred to, and knew the answers to her queries. However, it was clear that the more I demonstrated this, the more E and his wife became uncomfortable. Finally, Mother had started to ignore both of them as indicate they were boring her, and they left.

“Good god, they are a pain in the ass, aren’t they?” She said to me. I laughed and agreed.
At that point, mother seemed her old  a good day self.  It was someone I hadn't seen in years.  Someone M. had never seen before, and commented on it later.  He didn't believe she could be that person.  I didn't understand why she wasn't that way all the time.

We stayed a while longer, but clearly Mother was getting tired. As we were about to leave, she looked at me and smiled. Thanking me for coming and for all I had done. She seemed clear headed again, and told me she loved me and was proud of me. That she was glad she and I were doing okay.


I said it was no problem. We were good. I told her I would see her again. Sometime.  If not there, somewhere and that everything was fine. I think I said some other reassuring and mushy things, but I don’t remember. 


She was happy when I left and I knew that I would not see her again. Out in the car, M. told me what I had said was nice. It clearly had helped her. Had I meant it? It was hard to say. I hadn’t been lying, but had I really spoken truth as well? Even I wasn’t sure. By that point, my feelings toward my Mother were neutral.  She was a sick dying woman.  If I had helped that, that was a good thing, and it didn't matter who she was, what I had said, or if it was real.  It was the same as the kindness of strangers.

nanowritmo 21 / Stoned Soul Picnic

Time & Love / Laura Nyro Tribute








Having made a decision, I felt better. I would take care of the funeral following all her wishes. I would then refuse the executrix position, turning the estate over to one of the “cousins.”

The “cousins” were the people we considered family. My great-grandmother actually had two siblings: a sister and a brother. Her brother had two sons. One moved overseas. The other settled in Maine with his wife and had three children: J. B. and L. I remember visiting them in Maine only through pictures. But somewhere around the time I turned eight, he moved to University Park, Maryland for a government job.


From that point until I was in high school, we visited them for a week at least once a year. For me, those trips were special adventures. The mysterious “government job” seemed important and glamorous. D.C. was an exciting place with fabulous museums and monuments that one also saw on tv and in books. By that point J. was off to college, but B. was still around. She was the bohemian artist. Always with notebook or sketch pad in hand. She saw beauty in everything, protested war and wore scarves. Finally there was L. She was close to my age, and due to a medical condition short in stature. Her mother was a bit of a shrew, always harping on her too loose weight. Ultimately, the poor girl became anorexic, but from a child’s perspective, I thought we simply shared mother’s who could at time be unkind. I had companionship and another person I could relate to. Some summers, L. would come and spend two or three weeks with us “in the country.” We’d be bored together and try to kill time going for walks or discussing the personal life of David Cassidy. I was horribly jealous when her dad took her to a concert.


They lived in a nice house that was always neat in clean. So much so, kids were not allowed in the living room. They had a dog. A large oversized collie named Shawnee, who I loved. I cried for days when I found out the dog passed away. They were family.


To my child’s perspective a lot was put on to this. They looked like a family. Something my life didn’t have. They acted like a family, eating at home with a clean house, etc. Something my life didn’t have. We called them ‘family” and went to visit them, staying in their home and treating it like our own. Sure they had some eccentricities, and the mom was not really very nice, but families excused that. You loved your family unconditionally, and so, no matter what, I loved them.


Years later, when I excitedly invited all of them to my wedding and got only two RSVPs (B. and L.), I was disappointed. J. okay, I understood. He was married with kids then, in medical school. But the parents? No reply? I made excuses. They were older, busy, sent messages through Mother.


I tried to stay in contact a few times, but some how connections were never made and I was growing more and more disenchanted. A few years later, our paths crossed again. Angrily, I confronted E., the father. Tearfully, I said how much I thought of their family as my own and how it was their family that defined the concept for me. How I loved those D.C. visits, there influencing me to consider D.C. college options, and how hurt I was that he’d never met my husband. We lived only three hours away from each other by then and yet, never had contact.


E. was upset at the display, apologized and I accepted. He assured me he had no idea and that we would make plans to at least go to dinner. I was pleased when a few days later, his wife called and we set up a dinner date for a month later. I didn’t hesitate to agree that we would make the 2 hour trip to their house. No problem.


I was so excited. I spent the month telling M. stories about my experiences on our vacations and stories I heard over the years. The day of dinner arrived and it was all I could do to not leave hours early for our agreed upon meeting.


This turned out to be a good thing. Five minutes before we had to leave the house, the phone rang. It was E’s wife. She explained to me that J. was in town, and they were going to dinner with him. Not understanding at first, I thought she was calling to tell me the good news that the whole family would be together. No. She was calling to cancel, because they had gotten a better offer.