Goodbye, Mom

After a long and emotionally grueling two-and-a-half weeks, my family and I said our final goodbyes to my mom today. Long-time blog readers will remember the aggravation and comedy gold Mom gave me. Man, I wish I could spar with her some more.

(Above is my mom with her kazillion granddaughters.)

I'm not going to get maudlin. I'm definitely not going to describe the last emotionally crushing and exhausting weeks my brother and I experienced. Instead, let's celebrate this wonderful, stubborn, beautiful, frustrating, one-of-a-kind mother. 

Mom lived a full life on her own terms; stubbornly so. She was fond of saying, “I know what I know” and “I know I’m right.” Of course, she hailed from Missouri, the “Show Me State,” and wore that state cliche tightly like a snug turtleneck. She disagreed with my brothers and I on everything from politics to washing machines (don't ask), but did so with a mischievous sense of humor. And no matter how heated our ridiculous debates got, she’d always end the conversation with love.

What an amazing woman. When her husband--my dad--was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, she took her wedding vows literally. Like a warrior, she cared for Dad the rest of his life. She saw him through medical crises, job changes, and numerous life alterations. But she never once failed to pick him up from work on time and heft that heavy wheelchair into the car's trunk. Throughout these trials, they adapted and never stopped loving one another.

Miraculously, she also managed to raise three boys, a task not for the faint of heart. I mean, one daughter nearly did me in.

A master of multi-tasking, Mom also worked in real estate and hauled her sons everywhere, from grocery stores to school to auto shops and the dreaded fabric stores, where my younger brother and I remember spending endless, boring hours. I'm talking hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and...

(Deep breath)...hours and hours and days.

And more hours and hours and hours.

And hours.

An amusing funeral anecdote (because they're sooooooo popular): after relating the fabric shop trauma in a speech I gave at Mom's memorial, one of the funeral directors who oversaw the proceedings came up to me afterward, nudged me, and said, "What you said about fabric stores? Man, that really brought memories back for me. I spent endless days with my mom in those, too."

I said, "really?"

"Yeah."

"It was almost like I spent my childhood there," I said. "It was brutal."

He just shook his head, lowered his eyelids as if experiencing PTSD. I agreed with a solemn nod. Had the pandemic not deterred it, I think a brothers-in-arms hug would've been appropriate.

Anyway, once we three sons had flown the coop, my parents enjoyed vacationing in Florida. They spent many winters there, joining the unofficial “snow birds” community. After my dad’s passing, Mom chose not to sit still and continued her yearly sojourns down south. There, she renewed her passion for dancing (something she enjoyed with my dad in their early days). She turned many an eye on the dance floor with numerous suitors, but none of them could keep up with her. In every sense possible.

One of my mom's biggest joys was her grandchildren.  She taught her granddaughters the art of cooking, made them Halloween costumes (she made my daughter a Sailor Moon costume! The accumulated months in fabric stores clearly paid off.), took them on adventures, and shared her big world with them.  And always with a wonderful, self-deprecating sense of sly humor which all of “Nana’s girls” have inherited. Every grandchild loved spending time with her. A true testament to her loving power.

A caring, generous of soul person, Mom lived her life as a Christian, treating everyone with respect and compassion.

But I'm trying not to mourn, because I believe Mom’s happy. Whatever kind of afterlife there is, I choose to believe she's in a wondrous dance hall meeting up once again with my dad (a venue where they met in the first place many years ago), he dapper in his 40’s movie star style handsomeness, where they’re dancing eternity away to some crazy big band song.

I miss you and love you, Mom.

Good Ol'-Fashioned Holiday...ah, never mind...

With the holidays upon us, tradition means a lot to our friends and families. Unless you're stuck in 2020, of course, where most traditions such as family gatherings are thrown under the bus (for good reason).

But even with daunting obstacles in our path, the world is still finding variations on the old holiday traditions by masking, distancing, and going Zoom crazy (not to mention drinking, internet spending gone wild, and the outta control growth of facial hair). 

I say, let the merriment continue! Sing carols to each other via Zoom (frankly I'd prefer that over the excruciatingly uncomfortable visit upon my doorstep)! Reach out to friends and family and that guy who bullied you in eighth grade and let them know you're thinking of them...well, maybe not the bully; if you told him what you're thinking, it could very well start a new round of bullying.

One of our newest traditions is a very Christmas decorated bathroom. Shower curtain, towels, soap dispenser, other stuff. My daughter named it "Santa's Bathroom," clearly the place where Santa delivers his, um, gifts.

The important thing is, no matter what your holiday traditions are, do carry on. Find safe alternatives, but keep the spirit of the holidays healthy. Keep hope alive.

I gotta say, though, some traditions are probably better off buried.

These days, office holiday parties end up in mandatory diversity and/or sexual harassment training seminars, so cut it out. "Elf On a Shelf" is pure big business hokum mass-manufactured to give children Christmas nightmares. The song, Baby, It's Cold Outside? No. We don't need creepy, date-rape holiday music. Tinsel's probably about as healthy as bathing in fiberglass. Yard inflatables? Let's stick a pin in the damned monstrosities and turn them into wiggly windy guys found in car lots. I could go on, but I won't...

Wait. I think I will. Has anyone ever tried "figgy pudding," let alone know what it is? Furthermore, why is the singer so damned demanding? (Okay, hold on, now I'm curious. Well, figgy pudding sounds a lot like a kind of fruitcake. We can do without that, too.)

Some holiday traditions you can't kill with a hand grenade. They come back more times than Jason or Freddy or Michael. A lot of my past family gatherings usually resulted in some racist remarks. Granted, the guilty parties have tempered it in recent times, utilizing a kinder, softer sort of racism...wait, scratch that. There is no such qualification. But no matter how much I'd tried to stomp the racism out, it somehow kept sneaking back in around the holidays. Time of the year, I guess. Or more likely, the only time during the year I'd see some family members.

That tradition's not going to happen this year, though. On the 25th, it's just my wife and I. And it feels like our first Christmas together in a weird way. No stress, no travel, no awkward political conversations, no racism, no family discomfort! 

Now, bring me some of that damn figgy pudding. Don't make me say it again!

Happy holidays, everyone! Stay safe.

And speaking of the "horror-days," I would encourage everyone  to check out Grinning Skull Press' annual Deathlehem series, seven books containing all the Christmas horror tales you'd ever want stuffed in your stocking. Not only are these tomes chock-full of great prose, but all proceeds go the worthy Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. I'm particularly fond of The Shadow over Deathlehem (which contains a stellar story by a certain writer who's too damn humble to mention himself by name).

 

Baffled in the Hardware Store

I've never liked hardware stores. First of all, I know nothing about tools. I leave that to my wife. Second, they carry that very unpleasant aroma that's a mix between lawn chemicals, oil, and man-sweat (whereas, women don't sweat, they *glisten*.). 

In fact, hardware stores are my third least favorite kind of store, right behind tire vendors (with the always present smell of rubber, anti-sterile appearance, and coffee that'll send you hurtling to the bathroom), and fabric stores. (Why fabric stores? My mom used to drag my brother and I to those when we were kids. For hours! Nothing to do in there but hide behind the multiple rolls of fabric until the crotchety ol' lady assistant manager would yell at us to get out.).

So, it was to my surprise, when my wife told me, "While you're out, I need you to go to the hardware store."

I looked around to see if anyone else was in the room. "You're kidding, right? Remember, I'm the guy who spent 45 minutes wandering around one of those super hardware stores looking for ant bait."

"That's because you won't ask for help."

"Well...yeah, but..." My argument trailed off, simply because I didn't have one. Since the days of cavemen, guys don't ask for assistance. I don't make the stupid rules, it just is.

"Get over it," she said. "And go get a baffle."

"A baffle? What the hell's a baffle?"

"It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole." She dragged me to the sink and pointed it out. 

"But...but, why is it called a 'baffle'?"

"I dunno. I thought it was weird, too, but that's what it's called when I looked it up."

Fully (un)armed with knowledge, I set out on my "baffle" quest.

First stop was the local Mom 'n Pop hardware store (I always try to support the small, non-chain places whenever possible). I'd been in there before and it's usually well-kept. But this time it was in total disarray. The pegboard shelving units were near barren, pointless, and pushed out of the way. In their place sat an army of at least one hundred battered lawnmowers covering the floor. There was no room to walk beyond the door.

I saw no one and waited. Finally, this Stephen King-looking, hunched over, very tall guy ambled toward me, deftly maneuvering through the obstacle course despite horrible posture. And maskless. Immediately I wanted out of there.

"Help you?" He wiped his hands with a filthy red rag, just like in the horror movies.

I knew he wouldn't have what I was looking for, so I blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Do you work on mowers?" Stupid, I know, but I had to say something.

He nodded.

"Well, my mower, ah, it's acting funny."

"Does it mow?" he asked.

"Kinda."

"Then I'd go home and mow. Cain't get no parts in nowadays. Could be a good minute."

I fled outta there straight to the mazes and endless aisles of Super-Store Lowe's.

After wandering in a helpless stupor--every part, gizmo, what's-it, tool, and frick-n-frack began to insidiously meld together--I finally bit the bullet.

I stood next to a red-vested kid for minutes until forced to clear my throat. "Excuse me?"

"Yeah," he said, barely acknowledging my existence.

"I, um, I need a baffle for my garbage disposal."

Finally, he looked up and gave me one of those looks like I had toilet paper trailing on my shoe-heel. "A what?"

"A baffle for the garbage disposal."

He shook his head, face scrunched up quizzically.

Then I remembered my wife's description. "It's that round, rubbery thing that fits into the garbage disposal hole."

Light bulbs lit up above this dim-bulb kid's stylish hair-style. "Ah! They're over here..."

That's when it hit me. The true meaning of why a "baffle" is thusly named: because it baffles the hell outta everyone.

Hey! For a truly mystifying, mysterious, spooky, and, yes, baffling ghost story, come visit beautiful Gannaway, Kansas. Just not at night, if you know what I mean, and I think you do. That would be Ghosts of Gannaway, available at Amazon and other fine website establishments everywhere. 

The Monolith Martians

I would like to formally give the alien species behind the suddenly appearing and disappearing monoliths my most gracious thanks for giving us something to talk about other than the pandemic and Trump. So...thank you, lil' green men! (Of course if these monoliths are an early precursor to a world take-over, than I retract my thanks and say, "Don't forget to wear your masks 'cause now's not the best time for an alien invasion. Come back next spring for best results.")

Everyone knows about the monoliths, right? If not, a Cliff's Notes styled recap is supplied: in the red rock desert of eastern Utah, a mysterious 9 foot tall steel monolith appeared embedded into the ground. Days later, it mysteriously vanished. Then a second, similar monolith was found in the mountains of Romania. It too has disappeared.

This is...awesome. I'm stoked about this. No rhyme, no reason, all fun, something that's been missing in the news lately. I'd like to think creepy bug-eyed aliens (and if this is true, fellas, I apologize and mean no insult, so don't space blast my ass, please) are behind this fun diversion. My childhood dream come true. Maybe the aliens are punking us, having a good laugh at our expense. Maybe it's their overture to meet their idol, Trump. Or just maybe, these monoliths represent something of immeasurable depth and meaning.

However, there's always a spoil-sport in the bunch. Couple days ago, a Utah photographer claims he witnessed and took photos of a group of men approaching the monolith, then destroying it. One guy purportedly said, "Leave no evidence behind."

BOOOOOOO! Don't pee on my parade, mister! Give us this brief moment of wonderful imagination and expansiveness that we haven't known in the is-it-over-yet year of 2020. Don't be one of those guys!

But he seems to be dead-set on his conspiracy theory. I gotta say, though, his story sounds kinda hinky to me. First of all, where is this photographic evidence of the secret society of monolith destroying men? Did it get lost in the mail along with the evidence against Hunter Biden?

Okay, whatever. In all honesty, this is my second favorite theory, so I'll take it. I mean, who doesn't love to get behind a top-secret cabal of mystery men installing and then destroying  a couple of monoliths? To what nefarious ends? Some sort of secret weapons testing? Or maybe they're developing the ultimate in television streaming hardware.

There have been lotsa crackpot theories, for sure (I'm looking at you, 2020). So in the spirit of our times, let me lob another one out there: the monoliths are God's thermometers. Worried about how sickly Mother Earth is, God has inserted two thermometers (rectally and orally--different sides of our planet) to gauge why Mother Earth has been so sickly in 2020. Or something. 

God help me, I'd kinda like to even hear Trump's theory about the monoliths.

Or maybe...just maybe Stanley Kubrick's mind-mess of a film, "2001, a Space Odyssey," was prophetic. The monoliths portend the further evolution of humankind. Seems like we sorta need to evolve the hell outta 2020.

While we're chatting about evolution, why not give my horror/mystery/dark comedy, Corporate Wolf, a read? Putting the EVIL in EVILution, so you don't have to.