Mom called.
She’s in her 80s now and I don’t see her near often enough.
I live here. She’s in New Orleans. Getting my family of five halfway across America isn’t as easy as it should be so we talk on the phone every few days, but it’s not like being there.
Over the years, I’ve found that if she has a question or needs to make a decision, we’ll cover it in one of our calls.
We’ve been doing this for a while now and it seems to work. This time her question was about my dad. He’d died in 1970. She wanted to know if I’d be upset if she moved his remains.
When dad died, he was buried in a mausoleum. In New Orleans, this isn’t unusual because the city’s topography is basically that of a saucer. Major parts of the city are below sea level and the water table is right under your feet.
Because of this, if you dig a hole in the ground, it can fill up fast. If you dig a hole in the ground and put a casket in it, you’ve basically got a boat with a dead guy in it.
Anyway, my dad’s youngest brother, Ned, had come down with terminal cancer. When Ned died, he wanted to be buried near dad, but there wasn’t enough space. Mom wanted to know if I thought it’d be all right to move Dad to a larger vault that would allow them to be next to each other.
My dad drove a bus for a living. He wasn’t big on fuss or formalities. His idea of a great evening was to eat dinner and watch Jackie Gleason (who played a bus driver) in the “Honeymooners.”
Dad bought cars on the cheap. Never paid more than a hundred dollars for any of them. He’d add a dollar or two of gas when the tank was empty and a quart of oil when the red light came on and that was about it for maintenance.
Growing up, I thought it was normal when the car quit to have dad look under the hood and say, “That’s it.” Then, we’d all get out and catch the bus home. Next week, we’d have another car.
One particular heap he brought home was so rusty that Mom made a comment about it. Dad went to the hardware store, bought a gallon of black enamel paint and one brush. He then proceeded to paint everything except the windows.
Nothing was ever again said about his cars.
I learned a unique perspective on politicians from my dad. Once, in 1962, John Kennedy came to New Orleans. It was the first visit of a Catholic president to a predominantly Catholic city. The nuns told us we’d all fry in hell if we didn’t turn out to welcome him. This warning was redundant since the priests had been beating us around the ears at Mass with the same stuff.
On the day of the president’s visit, I went to see if Dad wanted to go. He was on the couch watching television when I asked: “Don’t you want to see the president?”
Without taking his eyes off the screen he said, “Sure as hell do, let him in. Ask him if he wants something cold to drink, too.”
I think I saw him wink as I went out the door.
Dad never made much money, but we never missed a meal and we always had clothes to wear.
He made sure we learned the important stuff. He taught us to not judge others unless we’d walked in their shoes. He taught us we were responsible for what we did and to admit our mistakes. Most importantly, he showed us what raising a family – day in and day out – was all about.
Now, my mother was asking whether I thought it’d be all right to move him to where his brother could be near him.
Wasn’t even a tough call. I just said: “Go ahead.”
She wondered if there should be a ceremony.
I told her to ask the cemetery manager if he had an old grounds truck (preferably a rusty one with lawnmowers, grass clippings and shovels in the back) that could be used to move the casket. If so, I told her to use it and throw in a cold six-pack or two of beer for the groundskeepers.
Mom kind of laughed. “Yeah, he’d probably like that.”
I like to believe that’s true.
Larry Simoneaux is a freelance writer living in Edmonds. Comments can be sent to larrysim@att.net.
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