Goodnight, Ma.

So my last blog entry had more emphasis on Father's Day. I felt bad posting that one because I still hadn't written about my mother. The reason being, I wasn't ready. I still might not be ready. The truth is, the hands writing these words are attached a purse-holding, anything-you- say,-Ma, Mama's Boy.

My emotions regarding my mother, who left us May 3rd only come in sizes starting at "Louisiana Purchase" and getting larger from there. So trying to pour out a pint for the blog wasn't happening.

Ma let me come home when I was an irresponsible drunk who had hit bottom and had no noteworthy skills besides breaking her heart. She made room. She put up with me when I quit a respectable suit and tie, several thousand (I forget how much at the moment but at the time it was a lot) job to get up and tell jokes. She made sure I knew to walk on the outside of the sidewalk and not to talk with my mouthful and hold it in and count to ten and to have Kleenex with me at all times and if I didn't have something nice to say, compliment the weather.

My whole life she was mother and father, not just to me but to two girls and two boys who stayed that way regardless of age or legal designation. She did this through a combination of advice, a stern look and the technique that Clarence Budington Kelland said of his father, she just"lived and let me watch." The stern look was reserved for off-color language and unacceptable behavior among other things. In that area, I had an extra tool that would allow me to get a little further than my siblings once I'd developed the skill. I could make my Mom laugh.I could say more if I could get her to laugh at it. It didn't matter the subject. She made me a better comedian because she made me think and talk fast. Sometimes not right away though. The first Christmas I brought my future wife home for Christmas, my mom worked into the conversation how she didn't want a big deal made over her funeral.

Merry Christmas.

The subject came up again a few weeks ago when she was in the hospital getting a pacemaker installed. She didn't want any big to-do or any weeping because she had lived all she wanted to. She'd done all she'd wanted to do. So she absolutely would not have us spending money on a big send-off.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Ma. We've rented a wood-chipper."She laughed to the brink of doing a spit-take with her ice chips. "We thought it would be fun for the kids." To top it off, she said through a laugh "I have rotten kids!"

I left a little bit after that, but told her I'd check in the next day when she was expected to come home.The next time I would communicate with her would consist of her ssqueezing my finger. At work the next day, my cell phone vibrated. I pulled it from its holster and saw it was my brother, Dick. I stepped away from my desk and took the call in the hallway near the elevators to talk to him. She'd had another heart attack during her procedure. It didn't look good. The rest of the week Dick, Marie and I would take turns just sitting in the room with her, giving her ice chips and cooling her face cloth. A week later, she was gone. Monday morning at 2 am, Dick called and told me she had passed. It was over.

The day after that felt better than the week before, when I could just watch her endure, instead of enjoy this vital life she lead. She'd had her last laugh. And I gave it to her. And that's the best way to close. With a huge crowd, or with my Mom.

Good night, Ma. You've been great.

Father's Day

So it's one of those moments I don't know if he'll remember Monday butI'll probably see show up in the scene I envision showing up in themontage that will flash through my head when he gets married.It was the first time Robbie went with me to plant flowers, clean thestone, and generally clean up the grave where my two parents now rest.I can still remember doing this stuff with my mother when my Dad wasthe only one in it when I was five or six, certainly younger thanhim. Young enough that I was one of the few kids in my neighborhoodwho had seen a cemetery both in the daytime and outside of a horrormovie.It had been a while since I'd even been to the grave, not that I didn'tthink about my dad pretty frequently. I think the fact I lost him whenI was four had me giving more thought to him, and maybe holding himhigher than I would have if I'd known him. It's conjecture now. But things changed when Ma passed and Heaven was a golden gate with lotsof clouds and wings and harp music again. So when I told Melanie Iwanted Robbie to help me with a project, she told me he might not be moved the way I hoped.She had both her parents until she was an adult, she didn't understand, I wanted Robbie to do the job with me. I didn’t want him afraid of the graveyard. I wanted him to want to make the cemeteryplot of his grandparents look nice, because it was a nice thing to do for them. We had some petunias for my dad's side and some marigolds for mymom's side. We did, the cleaning and he wielded the sponge and watercan like a pro. He lifted and replaced the toy car he'd placed therethe week before with the care and respect of a royal offering.Our last task, the one that took the most time, was cleaning off theplaque about 10 feet from the CARNEY headstone that identified theveteran status of my father. It was badly overgrown with grass untilthe four corners were obscured. Robbie tried using the weed whacker, which was taller than him, and he tried his best but he offered it backto me. When I was done I had him read that his grandfather was part ofthe 104th Medical Regiment. Born Aug 17, 1921, Died March 17 1970.Once the grass was cleared and it was readable, he gave it a gooddousing with the watering can.And I watched my son clean his grandfather's grave. I can't explainwhy that hit me as significant as it did. It was a connection. And ifyou believe in that kind of thing, which I do. I was showing my sonoff again for the only opinion I've wondered about but couldn't get. Ithink I know the answer. Yep. Great kid there.