The month that kicked my butt. Some memories pulled from the blur:
My three brothers and I, sitting around the kitchen table. We spend an hour just shooting the shit, talking about mom and dad, stories of growing up. Nobody challenges anybody else's veracity or talks about negative memories.
Fauré's Requiem, so beautiful it makes us all cry.
The minister says that mom often mentioned his grammatical errors after a service, so I feel I must carry on this tradition by alerting him to the fact that "whence" means "from where" and it really isn't necessary to say "from whence does my help come from." Just stick to the King James and no one will get hurt, OK?
A guy I went to high school with, in fact a guy I had a snogging session under (his) piano with around 1964, who is now an architect, took the time to come to the visitation and tell me "I learned things from your father that I still use every day in my work." Wow.
At my mom's visitation I am complaining to my daughter-in-law: "What's up with the Jolly Ranchers? They have a big box of tissues, OK I get that, and bowls full of Jolly Ranchers, the most horrible candy in the world! What we need is some peppermints, the crunchy kind like they have in good restaurants." At that exact moment, in walk my dear friend Jim and his wife Margaret, who hands me a bag containing gum, tick-tacks, crunchy peppermints, and Dove chocolates. Rethinking the whole "atheism" thing.
As I stand at the cemetery next to the freshly dug grave of my second parent in two weeks, the a-hole from GENTILE BROTHERS funeral services offers me words of comfort as follows: "Who has the check?" See Angie's list for a full summary of what jerks these guys were.
Learning only after her death that my mother had a secret love for (foul, foul) black jellybeans and ate a very stale one not long ago. This morphs into the famous "when she was in college, mom ate a one-year-old jelly donut." Delving deeper, we discover that those of us who inherited the Mann DNA have an "advisory" approach to sell-by dates. "It doesn't say eat-by! If you scrape off the mold it tastes just fine!" Whereas those who either married into the family or failed to get the Mann gene are more "throw it away! it expires tomorrow!"
Realizing that if there are other secrets beyond black jellybeans they are now consigned to the grave. And that there is no one to back-check the stories I tell .... I must use my powers for good.
Hearing "now each take a flower and place it on the coffin," realizing that I go first because I am now the most senior family member.
On his second try, two weeks later, the minister comes out with "whence cometh my help," and I feel like a proud mama.
Thirteen of us at the Italian restaurant where mom and dad used to go on Sundays, all the staff shocked (but not shocked enough to comp us), and the little girls dancing in the disco room.
My tooth falls out just before I catch the plane for my second trip to Jersey, and I am forced to keep it stuck in with Fixodent, earning the wrath of my dentist upon my return to Chicago.
Walking up the aisle behind the casket. Again. Thinking "I just did this." And "I wonder if it's possible for one's heart to actually break."
Finding the pearls that my father gave my mother on their wedding day, with a little card.
Resolving to learn more about Zambia, the country where most of the caregivers come from. One has a beautiful wood-chimes ringtone. They are all unbelievably sweet, patient, and kind. I hope they found good jobs, and that our references and bonus dough helped.
A card from a neighbor reveals that although mom refused to admit she needed a walker, she was happy to push this neighbor's baby's stroller -- "my personal walker."
Another dozen-plus, this time at a tavern, where we get a little raucous and talk about body parts.
Going from laughing to crying and back a dozen times in a few minutes.
The first phone call: I am standing in the pickup room at Rush Hospital to collect the Cussin' Cook who has just had cataract surgery. With one half of my brain I process the news that my mother is gone, while the other half arranges to have my parking validated.
The second phone call: Two weeks later, at 4:30 am. I don't even need to answer, really.
Actually having enough frequent flyer miles for a round trip to Newark: who'd-a thunk it?
We go through the house and put stickers on things with a minimum of snarkage and sidelong glances and plenty of Alphonse-y-Gaston style "no, no, no YOU have it!" Although there is a certain amount of breaking up into sub-family groups and whispering (later) "did you see what [this greedy one] took?" But only a little.
After that we all go outside. It's a beautiful day. We decide to have a group photo. Amazingly, a neighbor and friend walks by just at that moment and obliges with different cameras in turn. To spare your Friends page I have put it up here:
http://client.norc.org/jole/SOLEweb/newmans.jpg
Some are missing -- brother #1's three youngest children and brother #2's two kids and grandchild. But my peeps are there in force!
Can't believe my son drove 4,000 miles that month. Let me remind you that he drives a truck for a living!
Feeling guilty about escaping 40 years ago and leaving all this responsibility on the shoulders of my brothers and (one of) their wives.
Surprised to discover how much cards, flowers, and messages actually mean. Thank you all. | 
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chi_editrix's journal
annoyed
nostalgic
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