Fortunate son
Yesterday both of my parents spent some time with their own mothers. My mom went to the flea market in Shipshewana, Indiana with her mother and her mother’s friend and my father went to the cemetery with his.
I’ve not always gotten along with my paternal grandmother. It’s a long, complicated story that involves us not speaking to each other for five years. We both can be difficult and bull-headed. At one time we were like two rams charging at each other with neither one coming out as the winner.
Things are good between us now, thanks to Autumn. We’re much more relaxed when we’re together now that we can focus our attentions outside of ourselves. Grandma is so busy being in love with her great-granddaughter that she all but forgets about everyone and everything that irritates her, including me. It’s like in those submarine movies when the missiles are headed towards the sub and the captain yells “release the countermeasures!” and the little thingies spit out and shake in the water to deflect the blast away from the sub. Autumn is my countermeasure.
My father, on the other hand, is not as lucky. He hates conflict but often finds himself facing the missiles without a countermeasure in sight. Thankfully Grandma doesn’t seem to get mad at him as often as she does everyone else, but he still hates having to try and put out a fuse that’s been lit no matter who the target is.
So yesterday he and my grandmother visited my grandpa’s grave. Grandma brought along a wreath to place in front of Grandpa’s crypt. From what I heard, it was a very nice wreath complete with little flags to honor Grandpa’s status as a veteran. When they arrived at the crypt, however, Grandma was horrified to see the exact wreath she held in her hands already sitting in place in front of Grandpa’s name.
She instantly fingered my dad’s uncle, Grandpa’s brother, as the culprit. He had no right, she said. Grandpa was her husband and it was her duty to decorate his grave. She picked up the wreath already there and replaced it with her own identical wreath.
Grandma and Dad made the rounds, next visiting Grandma’s sister. Grandma, still fuming and still clinging to the offending wreath, decided to place the decoration on her sister’s marker. Since her sister wasn’t a veteran, she enlisted my dad’s help in plucking the little flags out of the wreath.
All the while my dad was becoming more and more uncomfortable. There they were pulling apart a wreath that, while identical to theirs, wasn’t theirs at all. Someone somewhere had taken the time and spent the money to honor Grandpa. Grandma, on the other hand, figured the party involved, obviously family, deserved to have his wreath taken apart for not respecting her place as Grandpa’s widow.
The last stop was to Grandpa’s parents, my great-grandparents. There my dad and grandma observed markers without decoration or flowers. It was at that point that Grandma started to question the origins of the other wreath. Had Grandpa’s brother placed the wreath at Grandpa’s crypt, he would have surely also placed something at his own parents’ graves.
“Oh. Maybe the VFW brought that other wreath,” Grandma said.
My dad learned a long time ago that it’s sometimes best to just keep your mouth shut.
I’ve not always gotten along with my paternal grandmother. It’s a long, complicated story that involves us not speaking to each other for five years. We both can be difficult and bull-headed. At one time we were like two rams charging at each other with neither one coming out as the winner.
Things are good between us now, thanks to Autumn. We’re much more relaxed when we’re together now that we can focus our attentions outside of ourselves. Grandma is so busy being in love with her great-granddaughter that she all but forgets about everyone and everything that irritates her, including me. It’s like in those submarine movies when the missiles are headed towards the sub and the captain yells “release the countermeasures!” and the little thingies spit out and shake in the water to deflect the blast away from the sub. Autumn is my countermeasure.
My father, on the other hand, is not as lucky. He hates conflict but often finds himself facing the missiles without a countermeasure in sight. Thankfully Grandma doesn’t seem to get mad at him as often as she does everyone else, but he still hates having to try and put out a fuse that’s been lit no matter who the target is.
So yesterday he and my grandmother visited my grandpa’s grave. Grandma brought along a wreath to place in front of Grandpa’s crypt. From what I heard, it was a very nice wreath complete with little flags to honor Grandpa’s status as a veteran. When they arrived at the crypt, however, Grandma was horrified to see the exact wreath she held in her hands already sitting in place in front of Grandpa’s name.
She instantly fingered my dad’s uncle, Grandpa’s brother, as the culprit. He had no right, she said. Grandpa was her husband and it was her duty to decorate his grave. She picked up the wreath already there and replaced it with her own identical wreath.
Grandma and Dad made the rounds, next visiting Grandma’s sister. Grandma, still fuming and still clinging to the offending wreath, decided to place the decoration on her sister’s marker. Since her sister wasn’t a veteran, she enlisted my dad’s help in plucking the little flags out of the wreath.
All the while my dad was becoming more and more uncomfortable. There they were pulling apart a wreath that, while identical to theirs, wasn’t theirs at all. Someone somewhere had taken the time and spent the money to honor Grandpa. Grandma, on the other hand, figured the party involved, obviously family, deserved to have his wreath taken apart for not respecting her place as Grandpa’s widow.
The last stop was to Grandpa’s parents, my great-grandparents. There my dad and grandma observed markers without decoration or flowers. It was at that point that Grandma started to question the origins of the other wreath. Had Grandpa’s brother placed the wreath at Grandpa’s crypt, he would have surely also placed something at his own parents’ graves.
“Oh. Maybe the VFW brought that other wreath,” Grandma said.
My dad learned a long time ago that it’s sometimes best to just keep your mouth shut.
