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mapsedgeThere's a lot of exposition in this story. It would have been easier just to have been there, dear reader, but you wouldn't have enjoyed it. It's long, but it does get entertaining. Really.
It was my mother's funeral, and outside the snow was beginning to ease up. The church wasn't full, not in a town this size and with many of mom's friends dead or too old to make the trip from wherever they lived, but it was a respectable showing, and it was enough: enough that the speakers could be heard, enough that the quiet laughter at humorous memories sounded appreciative rather than lonely.
Not enough to drown out my son's protestations at having his freedom curtailed. When you're sixteen months old, whaddareya gonna do? Fuss, that's what. That's what toddlers do.
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mljm</> finished her music and came down to sit with us. When J became too boisterous, she left with him, God bless her. I've been told over and over that the sound of a child in a church is no big deal, often welcomed by the older members of the congregation who love the life it brings and, truth be known, probably can't hear it anyway, but it ruins the experience for me and always has. We should have kept him around though: he might have enjoyed the circus to come.
If you read my conversation with Death, you will have read about Joe's treatment of my mother both before and after they were married. When us Morris kids heard what she was planning in the Spring of 1992, we were all on the phone with Mom (or, in my case, sitting at the kitchen table) warning her against that course of action. You're marrying him to try to find your way back to the Weeping Water you remember, but that was sixty years ago, mom! And Joe isn't exactly your fantasy man, you know that right?
Mom's favorite description of the man was mine, because it was succinct and no-nonsense: I told her one evening, "Mom, you're accustomed to working with doctors, professional men and women with more to show for their lives than some farmland in Nebraska. You're marrying into bullshit and turnips."
She laughed about that in every other phone call over the next ten years, even when she'd called to tell me how miserable she was. "You were right, William, bullshit and turnips, " she'd say. "God how I hate it here. Joe took away my keys so I can't leave the house."
"But Joe's sweet isn't he?" I'd reply, knowing she was going to go there anyway, even without the prompting. It made the conversations bearable if one could steer her off of the weepy shit.
"Oh, yes," she'd gush, "He's just the sweetest old man."
Ah, mom. Our oldest brother, Mike, once said that, provided with a reality she didn't like, mom would just make up her own. Being addicted to anti-depressants for the better part of thirty years made that easy I guess.
Into the story comes a young man named Earl who wanted to be Joe's other son more than anything. I believe to this day that Earl was - and still is - after Joe's money (Joe is one of the wealthiest people in Cass County, Nebraska.) Earl was ferociously jealous of their relationship, but not very smart about it: he once left a threat of harm to my mother on our answering machine, something along the lines of,
Back to the funeral. My aunt spoke of her childhood memories, of the high school cheerleader and mentor my mother had been. My brother Chris eulogized our mother, relating things I'd never known. My sister's husband, David, the only person not related by blood to ever call her "mom", gave the sermon. He finished, and prompted Joe.
"Joe, did you have something you wanted to say?" He had to repeat it, twice. Joe's son prompted him, got close to his ear to tell him it was time to do whatever it was he wanted to do. Joe rose.
"You want me to talk, now?" he said, his voice loud and scratchy, the voice of someone who shouts because he cannot hear himself.
"Yeah, Joe, c'mon up."
"Okay." A long slow walk, a dozen or so steps to the casket. "Okay." He turned and faced the congregation, bracing with one hand on the metal, rose colored box. "I'd like to thank you all for coming here to Marty's funeral." He uttered a few more platitudes that I don't really remember, then got down to business.
He reached for a book in a cardboard cover lying on top of the casket. "Yeah, okay." He held up the volume, a book about the size of your average Bible. "Okay. At this time I'd like to make a presentation." He began trying to pry the book, bound in cheap, reddish artificial leather, the kind of book you order from Reader's Digest publications, from its cover. "I have this book, see..." The book wouldn't budge. He shifted his grip as the audience - for that is what we had become, no longer a congregation - began shifting, nervous for him in spite of ourselves.
Unable to free the book, Joe turned and hammered it on the lid of the casket.
Didn't I see this on Seinfeld once? I thought to myself. My sister glanced at me, her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with hysteria or rage, it was hard to tell. Joe's son stared into his lap. "It's stuck," Joe said, and hammered again.
You can't write shit this good, I would tell Chris later that day when we'd all calmed down. He's mad, I would explode to my sister, Kathy, on the sidewalk after and within earshot of his son. My cousin told me she expected me to leap up and strangle him in front of "God and everybody." At that moment, it was all I could do to stay in my seat: leaving would have caused an even greater commotion, so I stayed.
David reached across to Joe and took the book. Joe, only faintly registering that the book was gone, turned back to us. "That's Principles of the U.S. Constitution," he said, reaching for the other book. "Volume 1. And this," he waved the second book around, but thankfully made no move to try to remove it from the jacket. "Is Volume 2. For my daughter JoAnn, who I believe is here (who'd been talking to him for an hour prior to the funeral, and sat with him during). And I hope her family prospers by it." He half laid, half tossed the book back to its place on the casket lid. "Well, that's all. Thank you all again." He made the long trek back to his seat.
There was a lot of embarassed coughing, a few titters quickly stifled. Into the stunned quiet, his voice cut again, "Could you understand me, Jim?" Jim, desperate to bring an end, assured him they could and to pay attention to the service. "Yeah, yeah, sure." Pause. "Okay."
So, this old man, in a final controlling gesture, hijacks the funeral of his wife, my mother, and takes it for a joy ride for nothing but his own hubris. Locking her in the house wasn't enough, eh? Now we'll all have you as the last indelible image in what should have been a day of kind remembrances. Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot.
*sigh* I'm not asking for sympathy, friends, I just need the stories to be told. Ten years from now, hell, one year from now, we'll all laugh about it. Someday, I'll print all this off and bind it and give it to my kids so they can know what happened in my life, and this as one episode, a situation comedy networks would save for sweeps week.
Where to go from here? Some happier stories, some other remembrances. Later, though.
It was my mother's funeral, and outside the snow was beginning to ease up. The church wasn't full, not in a town this size and with many of mom's friends dead or too old to make the trip from wherever they lived, but it was a respectable showing, and it was enough: enough that the speakers could be heard, enough that the quiet laughter at humorous memories sounded appreciative rather than lonely.
Not enough to drown out my son's protestations at having his freedom curtailed. When you're sixteen months old, whaddareya gonna do? Fuss, that's what. That's what toddlers do.
mljm</> finished her music and came down to sit with us. When J became too boisterous, she left with him, God bless her. I've been told over and over that the sound of a child in a church is no big deal, often welcomed by the older members of the congregation who love the life it brings and, truth be known, probably can't hear it anyway, but it ruins the experience for me and always has. We should have kept him around though: he might have enjoyed the circus to come.If you read my conversation with Death, you will have read about Joe's treatment of my mother both before and after they were married. When us Morris kids heard what she was planning in the Spring of 1992, we were all on the phone with Mom (or, in my case, sitting at the kitchen table) warning her against that course of action. You're marrying him to try to find your way back to the Weeping Water you remember, but that was sixty years ago, mom! And Joe isn't exactly your fantasy man, you know that right?
Mom's favorite description of the man was mine, because it was succinct and no-nonsense: I told her one evening, "Mom, you're accustomed to working with doctors, professional men and women with more to show for their lives than some farmland in Nebraska. You're marrying into bullshit and turnips."
She laughed about that in every other phone call over the next ten years, even when she'd called to tell me how miserable she was. "You were right, William, bullshit and turnips, " she'd say. "God how I hate it here. Joe took away my keys so I can't leave the house."
"But Joe's sweet isn't he?" I'd reply, knowing she was going to go there anyway, even without the prompting. It made the conversations bearable if one could steer her off of the weepy shit.
"Oh, yes," she'd gush, "He's just the sweetest old man."
Ah, mom. Our oldest brother, Mike, once said that, provided with a reality she didn't like, mom would just make up her own. Being addicted to anti-depressants for the better part of thirty years made that easy I guess.
Into the story comes a young man named Earl who wanted to be Joe's other son more than anything. I believe to this day that Earl was - and still is - after Joe's money (Joe is one of the wealthiest people in Cass County, Nebraska.) Earl was ferociously jealous of their relationship, but not very smart about it: he once left a threat of harm to my mother on our answering machine, something along the lines of,
William, this is Earl Stander. You'd better come get your mom before something bad happens to her.I shared that with the local law, and I think the Cass County sheriff and Earl had a little Come To Jesus meeting not long after. Anytime Joe accused my mother of cheating, or looking at another man, or planning to leave him, you can bet solid money Stander was behind it, whispering into his ear. It was their way of controlling her.
Back to the funeral. My aunt spoke of her childhood memories, of the high school cheerleader and mentor my mother had been. My brother Chris eulogized our mother, relating things I'd never known. My sister's husband, David, the only person not related by blood to ever call her "mom", gave the sermon. He finished, and prompted Joe.
"Joe, did you have something you wanted to say?" He had to repeat it, twice. Joe's son prompted him, got close to his ear to tell him it was time to do whatever it was he wanted to do. Joe rose.
"You want me to talk, now?" he said, his voice loud and scratchy, the voice of someone who shouts because he cannot hear himself.
"Yeah, Joe, c'mon up."
"Okay." A long slow walk, a dozen or so steps to the casket. "Okay." He turned and faced the congregation, bracing with one hand on the metal, rose colored box. "I'd like to thank you all for coming here to Marty's funeral." He uttered a few more platitudes that I don't really remember, then got down to business.
He reached for a book in a cardboard cover lying on top of the casket. "Yeah, okay." He held up the volume, a book about the size of your average Bible. "Okay. At this time I'd like to make a presentation." He began trying to pry the book, bound in cheap, reddish artificial leather, the kind of book you order from Reader's Digest publications, from its cover. "I have this book, see..." The book wouldn't budge. He shifted his grip as the audience - for that is what we had become, no longer a congregation - began shifting, nervous for him in spite of ourselves.
Unable to free the book, Joe turned and hammered it on the lid of the casket.
Didn't I see this on Seinfeld once? I thought to myself. My sister glanced at me, her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with hysteria or rage, it was hard to tell. Joe's son stared into his lap. "It's stuck," Joe said, and hammered again.
You can't write shit this good, I would tell Chris later that day when we'd all calmed down. He's mad, I would explode to my sister, Kathy, on the sidewalk after and within earshot of his son. My cousin told me she expected me to leap up and strangle him in front of "God and everybody." At that moment, it was all I could do to stay in my seat: leaving would have caused an even greater commotion, so I stayed.
David reached across to Joe and took the book. Joe, only faintly registering that the book was gone, turned back to us. "That's Principles of the U.S. Constitution," he said, reaching for the other book. "Volume 1. And this," he waved the second book around, but thankfully made no move to try to remove it from the jacket. "Is Volume 2. For my daughter JoAnn, who I believe is here (who'd been talking to him for an hour prior to the funeral, and sat with him during). And I hope her family prospers by it." He half laid, half tossed the book back to its place on the casket lid. "Well, that's all. Thank you all again." He made the long trek back to his seat.
There was a lot of embarassed coughing, a few titters quickly stifled. Into the stunned quiet, his voice cut again, "Could you understand me, Jim?" Jim, desperate to bring an end, assured him they could and to pay attention to the service. "Yeah, yeah, sure." Pause. "Okay."
So, this old man, in a final controlling gesture, hijacks the funeral of his wife, my mother, and takes it for a joy ride for nothing but his own hubris. Locking her in the house wasn't enough, eh? Now we'll all have you as the last indelible image in what should have been a day of kind remembrances. Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot.
*sigh* I'm not asking for sympathy, friends, I just need the stories to be told. Ten years from now, hell, one year from now, we'll all laugh about it. Someday, I'll print all this off and bind it and give it to my kids so they can know what happened in my life, and this as one episode, a situation comedy networks would save for sweeps week.
Where to go from here? Some happier stories, some other remembrances. Later, though.
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no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 21:43 (UTC)Joe, with the world watching him, everyone that love your mother, made plain exactly what he was and exactly what he did.
The truth was made plain to see.
D.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 21:57 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-27 14:41 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 21:45 (UTC)Oh.
My.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-26 21:58 (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-02-01 20:00 (UTC)