TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

One Car Funeral

Ma’s youngest brother and last of her siblings passed away. I knew as soon as the arrangements were made it would be up to me to see that Ma got to the funeral. The funeral would be in East Boston, and that posed a problem for me.

See, I’m petrified to drive in the city. Put me on a highway, let me go fast and straight and I’m happy as a clam. Get me in the city where I don’t know my way around, where all the streets are one way and I lose my cool. I also don’t do well making left turns without a light and I panic if I have to parallel park. That’s the only kind of parking in East Boston so right away I was having conniptions. I did the only thing I could think of. I begged Himself to take a personal day from school so he could drive. I owe him big time.

Ma called to give me the details of the funeral.

“The funeral is at Wednesday at three o’clock at the Sacred Heart Church. We don’t have to go to  Rapino’s (funeral parlor) and there won’t be a graveside service, but I don’t know how we are going to get to the church!”

I heard the unmistakable sound of Velcro loops locking together as she raised her wrist to her forehead. Part of me wanted to sing the song by Vanity Fair. “A thumb goes up, a car goes by Oh, won't somebody stop and help a guy? Hitchin' a ride, hitchin' a ride” Instead, I stifled the ‘Help me, Lord’ sigh and said, “Don’t worry, Ma, Himself and I will see that you get there.”

I called my friend, Red, to see if she could pick the Young One up at school. I owe Red big time.

I knew where the church was. It was down the street from Grandma’s house and around the block from Auntie’s. I had walked to confession and Mass a million times as a kid, but I had no clue how to drive there. Himself and I consulted Mapquest. Sacred Heart Church. 336 Saratoga Street.

Armed with our directions, the Weebles firmly buckled in the car, we headed to East Boston, near Logan Airport. It was pretty much a straight shot down the Pike from the Weebles. We drove through the new, pristine Ted Williams Tunnel and marveled how quickly the ride to the airport now was. The Weebles haven’t driven into Boston since the beginning of the Big Dig (1991) and they were amazed at the changes.

Ma mentioned her brother-in-law, Salvatore, had invited us back to his house for coffee after the Mass. I called Uncle from the car to tell him we were on the Pike. He said he would meet us at the church and reminded me we were to go back to his house for coffee.

We were zipping along splendidly, found the exit at the end of the Pike, made the left turn onto Bennington and then onto Neptune Road. According to Mapquest, a left at Neptune would put us onto Saratoga. Neptune Road ended and suddenly we were in the middle of the Circus Maximus.

Ben-Hur (3/10) Movie CLIP - The Chariot Race (1959) HD

All the streets were marked one way and none of them seemed to be in the direction we wanted to go in. Even though the Weebles grew up in the area, they weren’t helpful with directions.

“The church is around the corner from Guy’s.” Guy owned a small grocery store and surprise, the store is no longer there.

Himself patiently drove up and down streets, weaving through the maze of one way streets like a mouse searching for cheese. He turned down Morris St.

“This is the street Grandma used to live on!” I said. “Look, there’s the Sister’s school (Sacred Heart School). The church is down the next block.”

Sure enough, we found the church at the end of the street and could legally make a left turn onto Brooks Street. Himself pulled up to the curb where there was a handicap ramp. We offloaded the Weebles and Himself and I negotiated the maze of one way streets looking for a place to park. We ended up back on Morris St. and there was a parking space right in front of Grandma’s door. I liked to think the old lady was looking out for us. Himself parked the car and we walked to the church.

As I started to go up the steps of the church, I saw an old lady at the corner. The old lady was wearing a black coat with a fur collar. The old lady was pushing a walker.

What the hell? “Ma! Ma!” I yelled and ran up alongside of her. “What are you doing?”

“The church is locked. Your father went to find a way in.”

I saw Dad by some brick steps.

“The church is locked.”

I climbed the stairs and looked through the glass window of the door. I saw a doorbell and rang it. The door was opened by an older woman and I suddenly realized I was at the rectory.

“May I help you?”

“Yes, we’re here for the funeral for my uncle, but the church is locked.”

She looked at me as if I my horns were showing, and I worried that the lintel was going to collapse because I was standing on the hallowed threshold.

“The funeral isn’t today,” she said.

I looked at her as if she was speaking a foreign language.

My mouth opened and closed and I realized I must have looked like a codfish.

“Won’t you come in?” and she opened the door wide.

I stepped into the foyer and she lead me into the church office. She pulled out the church record. “The funeral is tomorrow at 3pm.”

“But the funeral for the Uncle is today!” I pleaded. The small voice in my head reminded me there was no hearse out front and a submarine klaxon began to blare.

She stepped across the hall and stuck her head into another office and asked about the date and time for the funeral. "Father..." I could hear her voice drop in volume to a respectful whisper.

“Father Salducci has the Uncle’s funeral at three o’clock tomorrow afternoon,” said the priest.

I wanted to scream. But we came today! We came from Worcester [Land of Here There Be Dragons]. We drove the Weebles. There damn well better be a #$$%&^%^ funeral today! If not the Uncle’s, somebody’s! Can’t the priest say the Mass today? We don’t really need the casket. It’s just a decoration anyway.

All hands! Rig for crash! We're headed to the bottom!

The woman gently ushered me out to the steps. “Who told you the funeral was today?”

I pointed at Ma at the bottom of the stairs. J’accuse! I wanted to throttle someone. Ma was the first choice, followed by the church secretary, the Pastor, and Dad for good measure.

I spent a good ten minutes trying to get through to Ma the date and time were incorrect. Both Ma and Dad were befuddled. I tried calling Uncle Salvatore’s house, but there was no answer. He must have been on his way to the church. I told Ma and Dad to stay in front of the rectory and Himself and I would bring the car around. We headed for Morris St.

As we rounded the corner in front of the church, there was Uncle Salvatore walking up and down the sidewalk.

“Uncle! Uncle!”

He smiled, shouted my name, and opened his arms to me in a big hug.

“Ma got the date wrong. The funeral is tomorrow.”

“Where’s your mother?”

“She and Dad are waiting out in front of the rectory.”

Uncle introduced Himself and I to his lady friend, Bee. We shook hands and she invited us back to the house.

Himself said he would bring the car around and I was to bring Uncle Salvatore and his friend to Ma and Dad.

It was quite cold and the wind had picked up. Ma was shivering and whining she was cold. Not much I could do because the church was locked! We stood like penguins and the old folks caught up with each other. The last time we had been together was three years earlier at Uncle Salvatore’s surprise 80th birthday. So we waited and waited for Himself to bring the car around.

Uncle Salvatore and Bee had walked to the church, and Bee decided she would walk back to put the coffee on.

I caught a glimpse of Himself coming around Neptune, but he missed the turn and disappeared. I ran to the front of the church hoping to flag him down as he came down Morris St. No such luck.

Uncle decided to go get his car so he could take Ma and Dad back to the house to get warmed up. I would wait for Himself. Uncle Salvatore gave me the directions to get back to his house.

Uncle brought his car around to the rectory and helped Ma and Dad to get in. I turned to walk to the front of the church and there was Himself parked in front of the church by the handicap ramp where we started nearly an hour before.

"Only my family can screw up a one car funeral! Can you believe the church is locked?"

"Sad, but the churches don't stay open like they used to."

"That sux! You can't claim sanctuary anymore!"

"Sanctuary!" - Charles Laughton as 'The Hunchback of Notre Dame' (1939)

We negotiated the streets with Uncle Salvatore’s directions and pulled up in front of his house. There was an empty spot right in front of his door and Himself started the maneuver to parallel park the car.

“Wait! Don’t park here. This is probably Uncle Salvatore’s space. Go further down. If we don’t find a space we can take a right and park on Bremen St., behind Uncle’s house.”

Maybe the old lady was still watching out for us because there was a space about 3 or 4 houses down from Uncle Salvatore’s.

At Uncle Salvatore’s, Bee was bustling around the kitchen, setting the table with cups, plates and food. Italians always celebrate moments of great joy, sorrow, or the mundane with copious amounts of food. She poured coffee and tea, and brought out cheese and crackers, Scali bread, eggplant Parmigiana, a frittata, and calzone.

It felt strange sitting around the dining room table and Auntie (Ma's sister) not there. Auntie passed away 6 years earlier and her daughter, Dee (2 yrs older than me), passed away 8 months later. Bee was very gracious and I’m pleased Uncle Salvatore has a companion.

We spent the afternoon reminiscing and catching up on the doings of Uncle’s son, grandchildren, and great grandchild.

Bee thought I looked a lot like Cousin Dee’s friend Margaret.

“Oh, no,” Ma piped up. “Margaret is thin.”

“Want some ice for that burn?” Himself whispered.

The conversation turned to the improvements Uncle Salvatore made in the house.

“You know, Sal,” began Ma. “I need a good plumber, not you.”

I passed the ice pack to Uncle Salvatore.

Ma went on about the remodeling she wants to do in the bathroom when her millions come in.

Since Bee was a new audience Ma began telling her how I only go out to them once a month, if that, and I never visit. (Surprisingly, she didn’t sing the ‘He’s Stupid’ song. She must have realized she would be slam dunked with the ‘Who Effed Up the Date of the Funeral’ song.)

“Whoa, back up the Elder bus,” I said. “I take you to the foot doctor, the heart specialist, and the primary care doctor. When you broke your wrist, I took you to the emergency room. I took you to three follow up appointments with the orthopedist.”

“Well, you don’t come to visit,” she sniffed.

“I came to visit you one Sunday. You said ‘I fell, look at my wrist.’ I took you to the emergency room. I visited with you for four and a half hours in the emergency room. It wasn’t my fault, you fell and we had to spend our time in the emergency room.”

“Well, you don’t stay for lunch.”

“I planned on staying for lunch. It wasn’t my fault that your primary care doctor kept you waiting for your appointment for an hour and a half and I couldn’t stay for lunch because I had to get back to pick the Young One up from school. If I’m such an awful kid, see if my twin sister will do better by you!”

Ma furrowed her brow. “But you don’t have a twin.”

“Bingo! Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Sensing the conversation might deteriorate to blows, Himself mentioned how it was getting late and we had best get on the road.

Uncle invited us back to the house tomorrow after the funeral.

Uncle Salvatore gave us directions back to the Pike. We missed the turn and passed the gas tanks.

Ma started singing the “You’re going the wrong way song.”

“We know!” we shouted.

“Why don’t you go through Chelsea?”

As kids, when we were annoying, one of the adults would say “Here’s a quarter. Go play in the tunnel.(Either the Callahan or the Sumner)”. The tunnel fare has gone up and I was tempted to give Ma three dollars.

A right turn brought us out to 1A. Himself missed the turn to the Pike, so we ended up going around Logan Airport on the exit road. Fortunately, Ma had nodded off and we eventually made it to the Pike and the tunnel and Boston rush hour traffic. All we would see for miles was red tail lights strung out like Christmas lights.

Back at the Weebles, Ma sank wearily into her chair. “Oh, I don’t know what we are going to do tomorrow. If you can’t make it, don’t worry about us.”

I should have said, “Great! See ya.” Instead, I told her not to worry. We would see that she got to her brother’s funeral.

After all, we were in an effin movie. Tomorrow, it would be Groundhog’s Day all over again.

The same day, over and over" | GROUNDHOG DAY

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

     In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Dia De Los Muertos

Getting the Weebles to talk about final wishes is necessary, but difficult. When bringing up the subject, the perception is so how much of that $2 million that Nostradumbass is sending you do I get?

Not long ago, I was surprised when Dad began talking about his final wishes. He told me about an insurance policy through the Veterans Administration. I already knew this as several years ago, Ma showed me where she kept the important papers. She's quite fond of rearranging furniture and things so all bets are off that the important papers are still in the location where she showed me.

Anyway, Dad was telling me about the insurance policy. There would be enough money from the policy to bury him and Ma. He said he would like to be buried at the national cemetery down the Cape. I nodded though hoped if he passed the funeral wouldn't be on a weekend during the summer. Traffic would take days to move around the Bourne rotary. Guess we'll just have to burn that bridge when we come to it.

He also said he wanted a military funeral. As a WWII veteran, he said he was entitled. I'm assuming he meant a flag draped casket, honor guard, and bugler from the local VFW [ed. Veterans of Foreign Wars]. I have to make a note how to get in touch with the Joint Chiefs as dignitaries, just in case.

"Now you don't have to worry about the burial plot. That will be provided. At no cost"

"Ok," I said as if I were taking notes.

"One other thing."

I thought he was going to give me a list of hymns he would like played at the funeral. Some years ago, he gave me his 27 page obituary to be put in the newspaper. I half expected to hear him say he wanted the Ave Maria sung at the Mass and wasn't it too bad Nelson Eddy was gone and couldn't sing it. Nelson Eddy had been a friend of a cousin and had sung at the cousin's wedding.

"I don't want HER buried in the same hole!"

I choked with laughter. "Okay, but what should we do with her."

"I don't care." It had been a difficult day for him with Ma sniping and singing the 'He's Stupid Song' to all within earshot. He paused in thought. "Burn the witch!"

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Orthopedist Visit

After the eighth circuit around the parking lot, I headed to the main lot and then to the far employee lot, both were full. The hospital must have been running a sale. I went back to the medical office parking lot and spotted a man walking to what I hoped was his car. I slowly followed behind with my directional happily blinking to others, I had found a space.

On the way to the orthopedist’s office, I wondered if the Weebles had found the office alright. If they would remember the office was on the first floor. After all, we visit this building every other month to see the foot doctor on the third floor. I had a moment of panic when I entered the empty office. I hadn’t been trolling the parking lot that long. The last time we visited this doctor, his waiting room was wall to wall with patients and the line spilled out into the main lobby where there were several more chairs outside his door. As I approached the receptionist, she looked up.

“They are in the examination room. Would you like to go in with them?”

“God, no!” I said forcefully. “I just wanted to make sure they found the office ok. I’ll just wait over here.” I took a seat in the corner and flipped through a very la-di-dah architectural magazine. The kind of magazine that showcases “Homes Better Than Yours”. I could hear some of the conversation between Ma and the doctor. Complaint. Explanation. Complaint. Explanation.

“That’s because you are leaning on the walker instead of using a cane,” he patiently explained. “Well, everything is looking fine. I want to see you in another month for an x-ray. I’ll escort you to the waiting area.” He caught sight of me and added, “Your daughter is here.” He emphasized daughter and I wasn’t sure if I was elevated to a high status or if he was relieved to turn the weebles over to someone else. He then asked Ma if he could fill me in on how she was doing.

Now, I don’t mean to sound callous, but it’s not my monkey. Somehow he must think I’m the primary care giver, and I need this information. Ma takes care of herself very nicely and no thanks to anyone. So I put on my best intelligent look and listened as he explained Ma’s wrist is healing nicely. The pain she feels is because of the pressure as she leans on the walker. She had complained of shoulder pain, but he thought that was mostly due to the way people using a walker hunch their shoulders when they walk. I nodded. Very interesting.

Ma interrupted at this point to ask about the visiting nurse. I thought she was going to ask him if the visiting nurse could do the housework or take her to Market Basket.

“Ma, he has nothing to do with the visiting nurse.”

“Yes, he does. She wants me to have physical therapy.”

“I told you the therapy isn’t necessary,” he said to her. “Her hand is very arthritic,” he began to me.

“I don’t feel like I have Ahtha Ritis” That’s how a Bostonian pronounces, arthritis, just like it’s a man’s name. Arthur Ritis.

“Well, you do. You don’t have much range of movement in your thumb. Therapy isn’t going to change that. No therapy.”

Ma was put out. “The nurse isn’t going to like you.”

I’m thinking he outranks the nurse and good for him for not prescribing services that won’t be a benefit except to make money for the insurance company.

At this point, the doctor noticed Dad was carrying Ma’s splint.

“Why does he have that? Why isn’t she wearing it?” he asked me as if I were the primary care giver.

“She doesn’t wear it. She hasn’t worn it in a few weeks.” He was about to ask another question and I shook my head. He has an Italian last name and I was tempted to ask Parli italiano? You ask why? She’s a cetriolo. A cucumber. I knew Ma would selectively hear this remark. Not good for me. He wouldn’t understand that she wouldn’t wear the splint because she had to sign those checks so she could win the two million dollars that was coming this week. I shook my head. “I’m just the chauffeur.” On duty is tattooed on my butt cheeks.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Me Iuva, Domine

Me iuva, Domine. Help me, Lord. Dad’s phone bill arrived. My fingers trembled and beads of sweat dotted my forehead as I ran my finger under the flap. I wished the kid was here to recreate his role. I even have the cape he wore as a chasuble. No nevermind. I could play both parts. I took a deep breath and began the chant. The words of the prayer and responsorial familiar in the old language.

Kyrie, eléison

Christe, eléison.

Christe, audi nos.

Christe, exáudi nos

Pater de cælis, Deus

Miserére nobis

Sancta María, Regina perpetua clueless

Ora pro nobis

Sancta María, Mártyre solus ipse

Sancte Michael

Ora pro nobis.

Sancte Gabriel

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Raphael

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Concordia, materfamilias

Ora pro nobis

Omnes sancti Angeli et Archangeli

Orate pro nobis

Sancte Josephe, vox nihili

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Josephe, illigitimi imbecillus

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Petre

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Paule

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Andrea

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Jacobe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Joánnes

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Thoma

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Jacobe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Philippe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Bartholomæe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Matthæe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Simon

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Thaddæe

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Matthia

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Barnaba

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Luca

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Marce

Ora pro nobis

Omnes sancti Apóstoli et Evangelistæ.

Orate pro nobis

Sancte Sebastiane (because the nuns wouldn’t let me take his name at Confirmation)

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Fratur, nizeboymutasomonabaitch

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Antoni

Ora pro nobis

Sancte Dominice

Ora pro nobis

Propitius esto

Parce nobis, Dómine

Ab omni malo Jamaica

Líbera nos, Dómine

Dómine, exáudi oratiónem meam

Et clamor meus ad te véniat

Dóminus vobíscum.

Et cum spíritu tuo. (The Pope’s telephone number Et cum spriti 2-2-oh )

Exáudiat nos omnípotens et miséricors Dóminus

Amen

Carefully I pulled the bill from the envelope and scanned the International Calls.

Goose eggs.

Deo Gratias!

TBT Reprint from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Monday, October 08, 2007

Let The Sun Shine

This little tidbit is about my weeble neighbor, Prissy, and the arrangement we have with regards to trash pick up. Rather than spend the amount of money the town wanted us to pay for a permit plus special bags to haul our own trash, we decided to contract with a waste management company. Since Prissy has such a teensy bag of trash, I told her she might as well put hers with ours. Every Sunday night or Monday morning, I would go over have a fast cup of tea and collect her trash. When she has some do ri me, she kindly kicks some our way towards the bill. Two weeks ago, our trash pick up day was changed from Monday afternoon to early Thursday morning. We had Prissy put her trash on her front stoop Wednesday night and when Himself got home from karate and T'ai Chi classes, he would go over to pick up the garbage.

Prissy called me to go over for tea this afternoon. It was a dreary, rainy day and I figured she wanted a little bit of company. We chatted as she set the tea things out. Bits of this and that. After an hour, I got up to leave.

"Oh, wait before you go." She brought out a plate of muffins. "I baked these for Himself. He's been so kind coming to get my trash." She held the offering and beamed.

Hello! Who picked up your trash for over a year on Sunday nights or Monday mornings? Through rain or snow and dark of night, weaving and dodging the peeping eyes of the Leaf Lady, I was ever faithful and stayed my rounds. Prissy never baked muffins for me! What is it with mothers and sons, even if they are adopted? Weebles, you can't win for losing. Well, Himself and I had a good laugh and enjoyed the muffins. When Himself bent to retrieve a muffin liner that fell on the floor, the sun came out.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Just Say No

Usually children pit one parent against the other. If the child wants something and one parent says "no", the child goes to the other parent to try to get his way. At odd times while dealing with my weebles, I have become the parent.

Ma had a stack of letters to be mailed. There must have been a dozen or more. All were being sent to some sort of contest, psychic, or bogus charity. No doubt each envelope contained a check for a small amount, $5 or $10. A dozen letters and this was just one days' mailing.

She asked me to stop at the post office downtown on the way to the doctor's office. I said no. If these were bills to the electric company or property taxes, I would have stopped. (Well, in all honesty, not without a bit of whining. I hate driving downtown.) I thought "no" would be the end of it, but I should have known better.

A short time later, Dad approached me.

"Mother has some letters she needs to mail. She needs you to stop at the post office on the way to the doctor's office."

"Mother" when he's in the "I'm the Father you will do as I say" mode.

I would have used a very common, Bostonian expression, but it isn't politically correct, not that it ever was. I will substitute. What are you on, crack? She just asked me, and I said 'no'. I'm not going to enable her. She's only sending out things to the scammers. She can put the letters in the mailbox for your letter carrier to pick up. Though you should take them, tear them up, and throw them away." End of discussion, though I should have known better.

"She says you always do things for me and not for her." There was a note of glee in Dad's voice.

"Well, you can abuse of her of that notion. I just shot you down too. You can also remind her, she did not push her walker the two miles to the emergency room, or the eleven miles to Market Basket, the twenty doctor's appointments or the million other shuttle runs where my Toonerville Trolley takes her."

Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother. Easier carved in stone than done. Help me, Lord, I'm trying. There should be a corollary to that rule. Except when they are doing something stupid like flushing their income down the commode. Than thou shalt just say 'no'

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, September 30, 2007

The Silent Meeting

The waiting room was long and narrow with a row of chairs along each wall. It reminded me of a subway car only there were no advertisements above the heads of the passengers to allow you to discreetly observe fellow travelers. A young man sat across from me. He was thoroughly absorbed in one of the dozen of sports magazines in the doctor’s waiting room. Next to him sat an elderly women with her arm supported in a sling. A woman roughly my age was sitting next to the elderly woman. We smiled politely to each other.

Ma started grousing about the wait.

I tried to count the impressions on the dentil molding and not to eavesdrop on the elderly woman and her companion. The elderly woman was complaining about the wait too.

I smiled politely to the companion. She inclined her chin towards Ma and Dad and then pointed her chin my way.

I nodded with a sheepish smile. Yup, they’re my folks.

She tipped her head towards the elderly woman sitting next to her and then rolled her eyes. This is my Ma.

We both hid our smiles. We had made a connection like Masons and the secret handshake.

Ma was called into the examination room. Dad trailed after her dragging the pockabook behind. Several minutes passed and then Ma could be heard complaining about the wait. She had to use the ladies’ room and it would serve the doctor right if she went right then and there.

I shook my head at my sympathetic companion and rolled my eyes. Help me, Lord!

She shrugged. What can you do?

A short time later, Ma’s examination was done and she pushed her walker down the hallway. More complaints about the wait. At least she seemed happy she didn’t have to wear the sling any longer.

I got up and opened the door to the lobby. I was standing next to the woman with the elderly mother. Sotto vocce, I hummed the theme to Mr. Rodger’s Neighborhood. It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighbor…

The woman patted my hand. You are not alone.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by. 

Sunday, July 29, 2007

FIOS

Wednesday, the day the FIOS technician was to arrive at the Weeble’s house. Midmorning, I received a call from a telephone company representative telling me the FIOS order was cancelled.

“Somebody at the house sent the technician away.”

I couldn’t imagine Dad sending the technician away as he was so adamant about bundling the telephone with FIOS. Could Ma have refused to let the technician in the house? The only way to find out was to…

“Hello?”

“Hi, Dad, it’s me. Did you send the FIOS technician away?

“No, he was here. He came in and I showed him the computer. He did something, and the computer worked. Said I didn’t need the FIOS, and he left.”

“Ok, but without the FIOS, your telephone won’t be bundled and you won’t get the flat rate.”

“Oh, I want that.”

So I called the phone company back and spoke to another representative. She told me the technician had logged the work order was cancelled by someone at the house.

“Is my father connected to FIOS?”

“No, he’s still with DSL.”

After much go around, the problem became apparent that there are now two different departments in the phone company, and neither talk to the other. There was an apology and another appointment was made. I called Dad back to make sure he would be around when the technician arrived the following day.

The next day, Dad called me to say the technician had installed the FIOS. They had an awful time wiring the house trying to find a means to bring optic cable into the house. They had to crawl through the crawl space under the eaves. I felt sorry for the technicians as it was a thousand degrees outside and under the eaves is hotter than Hell.  Dad was very pleased with the work they did. The technician left him a manual, and he was happy.

“And the computer goes a lot faster too.”

“Uh-huh.” As if he would be able to tell the difference, but he was happy and that’s all that mattered.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by. 

July 18, 2007

New World Order

Since Ma and Dad first were married 64 years ago, Ma managed the purse strings, and Dad got an allowance. Instead of working as a team, both of them have this silly “my money – your money” concept. Their system generally worked fine until about 20 years ago when Ma became addicted to the phony lotteries and scam artists, and she whizzed through their savings. She blithely writes checks without having the funds to cover them. The bank happily slaps her with finance charges though they are generous in charging only $5 per bounced check instead of the $35 per check most banks charge their customers. The finance charges add up to a tidy sum per month.

A city girl, born and bred, Ma hated the town they moved to. She wants to move. She wants to move back to East Boston and into an apartment for $100 per room. She wants her rent to be $300 or $400 per month, utilities included!

She wants to teach Dad a lesson so she issued him an ultimatum. She will no longer pay for "anything". So, Dad took her up on her challenge. He went to their bank, had his social security check removed from the direct deposit to Ma’s checking account. He went to another bank, opened up his own account and authorized his social security check to be direct deposited into the account. Yes, you can say it. It’s about #%@#@ time!

I was concerned initially he might not be able to handle the expenses, especially the property taxes which are paid quarterly.

He said he would be able to manage. "I'll do alright as long as I can hold her off."

"Her" I assumed was Ma. "What do you mean?"

"The other day she asked me to write out a check so she could send it to one of the scammers."

Altogether now, 

"What happened?"

"I told her 'No!'"

I think Dad's enjoying himself. Long live the King!

TBT Reprint from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by. 

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

Close Cover Before Striking

I had to take Dad to an appointment at the V.A. to have his medication evaluated for a discount benefit.

Ma was industriously going through all her old junk mail sorting things to burn in the fireplace. I told her she shouldn't be burning anything in the fireplace. Ordinarily, I'd think a match would do wonders for the place, but it reeks of smoke. She won't open a door or window for ventilation because she complains of the cold, even when temperatures soar into the 90s.

She said she had to burn sweepstakes papers. She's convinced the mail carriers went through her trash. Someone won $10,000 earmarked for Ma, and to add insult to injury, they called Ma to tell her about it. 

Dad and I headed off down the road. When we got back, there was such a noxious, toxic smell. I told Ma she shouldn't burn anything. She said it was her house and she could do what she wanted.

Talking to Dad later, I asked him if he knew what she was tossing in the fireplace.

"She throws everything in there. She burns the Styrofoam plates we use and the liners from the meat."

Rolling Eyes

I have tried to tell her that Styrofoam is toxic, but my warnings fall on deaf ears. One can only hope that the neighbors will call the EPA to complain about the factory next door. I'm sure the chimney stack isn't the requisite height. In the mean time, might be worth it to invest in a gas mask.

Throwback Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

   In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Thursday, July 05, 2007

Ave Maria

To most folks, July 4, is a day for cookouts and fireworks. For my family, The Fourth is another Holy Day of Obligation, the Weebles' wedding anniversary. This year, their 64th.

The Eldest had to work the holiday, and Himself stayed home in case she called saying the boss let them out early. He also had to go in search of a large pot to cook the prize she won in a raffle. (If you have nothing better to do, you can read all about her prize ) That left the Youngest and I to head to the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Perpetually Clueless for the afternoon service. As planned, we stopped at the nice, clean, modern supermarket, Stop and Shop, two miles from the Weebles'. There was a special on roses so we picked a dark coral bouquet. I asked the florist clerk if she could wrap the flowers while we finished the rest of the shopping. We picked up strawberries, angel food cake and fat free Redi-whip, two cards, and some other items I needed. The clerk surprised us by adding babies' breath and leather leaf fern to the roses making a really pretty bouquet.

There were a lot of people in the store. Most of them were picking up hotdog and hamburger buns, and the checkout lines were moving quickly. We had made good time down the Pike so I told the Young One we would visit one of the other stores to kill some time. We had 10 items in the cart. I debated whether or not to use the self-check out, but decided to use the 12 item express lane. I placed our items on the conveyor belt and waited, and waited and waited. The young woman ahead of me was having a debate with the check-out clerk over the price of a bag of chips. The clerk called a runner to go check the price. We waited some more. The Young One observed so much for an express lane, though it was helping us to kill time. Finally the chip dilemma was resolved, and our order was rung up.

Out in the car, I tucked a bit of cash into each card. The cash was really more for Dad than Ma. She controls the purse strings. She's so tight when it comes to an allowance for him. So tight, she squeaks when she walks. He doesn't always have ready cash to get a hair cut or buy himself a cup of coffee. So I slipped some cash into his card. Slipped an equal amount into hers. The Young One asked why I didn't just get them one anniversary card. Explained that if I put all the cash in the card, Grandma would take it all and Grandpa would get bupkis. With the nitty gritty taken care of, we went over the highway and by the woods to Grandma's house.

I rang the bell and then opened the door and announced "It's me!" so I wouldn't scare the Devil out of them. The Young One gave Grandma the flowers. Grandma was thrilled. She had been feeling down figuring we had forgotten all about them. She made much over the flowers. They were the same shade as her wedding colors.

I began getting things ready in the kitchen waiting for the arrival of the other pilgrims. When they arrived, Ma beamed. Almost all her chicks singing Aves to her. She was well pleased.

Ma has a small table in the living room that opens out to a dining table. The table is littered with Ma's business, all the you-have-won junk. She began issuing orders to clean the table off, but I quickly squelched that. It would have taken us days to relocate the items on her flat file.

She sat in her chair, arms folded across her chest. "Hmmm. In my own home I can't give orders."

I considered it tit for tat. I sent the Young One and The Boy downstairs with Grandpa for three extra chairs. We cozily sat around the kitchen table to have coffee and cake.

For the most part the Weebles were on their best behavior. Ma tried a few snipes. How her son in law does everything for her. She tried the chorus of The He's Stupid song. She hounded the Boy for the price of the cars at the dealership where he works. She wanted to know if he could get her a car.

"Got $40,000?" he asked.

"I will next week. I got a big check coming in. I was notified."

We all sang the Kyrie Eleison (Lord, have mercy)

Ma then asked where she could find a typewriter. The general consensus was at an antique store, but we weren't sure where one would find useable ribbons. Ma wants to type her checks because her handwriting is deteriorating. The scammers must be calling complaining they can't read her checks.

"What was that thing you used to play with?" she asked the Brother.

He looked at her blankly.

"The thing in your lap that you used to play with."

I tried not to lose composure, but I couldn't help it. I began to giggle and caught the Brother's attention with a hand signal which reduced us to gales of laughter. 🤣

All in all we had a fun time. After all, it was only a couple of hours out of our day to make an old lady very happy.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Friday, June 22, 2007

Painting the Roses Red

Tuesday, the last day of the trifecta. The Weebles would be running out of milk. Ma would make Dad walk to the store to buy the milk. Too humid for a healthy, young person to walk a few miles, let alone an 88 year old man with heart problems. Though Ma knows she is 88 years old, she somehow thinks Dad is still in his forties and in good health. So, I stopped to pick up a gallon of milk to save Dad the walk. I also stopped so I wouldn’t be roped into a trip to Market Basket for a lousy gallon of milk.

Were they happy I brought the milk? I might as well have brought them magic beans.

“What’s that?” Dad asked.

“Milk.”

“What did you do that for!”

“To save you a walk!”

See Dad would like nothing better than to be running out for milk per Ma’s order and to drop dead in the middle of the road. Freedom for him with a helping of guilt for the rest of us.

“How much did you pay?” Ma asked.

“$3.89”

“You paid too much!”

“Well, if you people learned to drink 1% milk you could get a gallon cheaper!”

“I don’t like 1%. It’s watery.”

As if she could tell. She has a bit with her cereal for breakfast, and the rest is used in coffee. Ma was put out because there wasn’t going to be a quick dash for the milk after the visit to the foot doctor.

“Chalk one up for Herself,” I though smugly. I can play the game too.

Ma started to pick on Dad again about the blood and urine tests. She had the urine sample, but we’d have to drop it off at the doctor’s office.

“No, problem. I’ll take it with me and drop it off on my way home.” I go right by the doctor’s office.

Off to the foot doctor we go. The hospital medical building where his office is located must have been running a sale. There were no parking spaces available, let alone the handicap space. I offloaded the Weebles in front of the building and trolled for a parking space. I even went to the main hospital lot and that was filled! After a few circuits, I finally got a handicap space in front of the main entrance to the hospital. A primo space, but on the other side of the building and too far for Ma to walk. I no sooner got up to the doctor’s office when she came out. So I told them to wait in the lobby and I’d bring the car around.

I headed for their house when Ma announced I had to go to the other doctor’s office to drop off the specimen. She had it in her handbag. Punishment for bringing the milk is a different Toonerville Trolley run.

“I told you I’d take it with me when I went home. I go by this building.”

Ma crossed her arms across her ample chest. “I thought I was saving you a trip and doing you a favor.”

“No, this is now an extra trip.”

She sighed deeply. “I don’t give the orders, I just take them.”

And I'm painting the roses red.

TBT Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Wednesday, June 06, 2007

The Toonerville Trolley

Himself called to me as I was dumping my tiny saddlebag on the butler table. “How were the Weebles?”

I groaned.

“Do you need an aspirin?”

“No, I took some before I left the house this morning.”

“Need to blog?”

“Boy howdy, do I ever!”

He chuckled sympathetically. “What happened?”

After I dropped the Eldest off at work, I made good time getting to the Weebles. There wasn’t much traffic on The Pike (I-90). They finally finished (after 5 years!) the bridge reconstruction by the old Carling Brewery. Got to the Weebles, in 35 minutes without speeding! Got them loaded in the wagon, and we headed to Mahket Basket.

Course, it poured buckets on Monday, the day social security check funds were available, so all the Weebles in Middlesex county were shopping at Market Basket. There were no handicap spaces available. I off loaded the Weebles in front of the store and parked the car.

When I got into the store, Dad was feeding cans into the can return machine. Ahead, I saw people jumping out of the way so knew Ma had headed towards Dairy. As I got there, Ma was lifting 12 packs of root beer and ginger ale into her cart.

“Just wait a minute wait for him! Let him put the soda in his cart. This basket isn’t big enough.”

Dad shows up with a carriage and the two off us offload the soda. We’re down to the last pack. (3 root beer, 3 ginger ale) when Ma suddenly decided to take off too look at the special on shredded mozzarella cheese.

I yelled at her as I’m the one hanging onto a carton of ginger ale and the side of the scooter basket.

Finally, everyone was settled and heading in the right direction. Ma calling for this item and that item over her shoulder and me chucking items into her basket as I trotted along. Once in a while she was forced to stop and wait because some poor Weeble lady debating the fine points of sour cream or cottage cheese.

“Oh, lady! Hurry up!” Ma mumbles rather loudly.

I thought of the traffic jam Ma will cause when she has to sain all the meat. Tit for tat in my not so humble opinion.

We passed the fish market, which didn't smell as bad as it has in the past. Either that, or I’ve become immune to the smell. We arrived in the meat department and the ritual of the Monthly Blessing of the Meat begins.

Ma pointed and I leaned over the counter, grabbed a candidate, and passed the package to Ma. She poked, prodded, stared at the meat, passed the package back. Occasionally, she placed the blessed meat into her basket, and we repeated the ritual down the miles of refrigerated meat cases.

In front of the roasts, a Weeble gentleman turns to speak to us. “Beef is $6..99 a pound! Can you believe that?”

Now, I don’t do the grocery shopping. I wouldn’t know good prices from high. I can tell by the inflection of his voice he must be shocked with the price so I respond by dropping my jaw into a wordless “Oh” and widening my eyes.

He seemed pleased by my reaction. “I used to be a butcher. Top to bottom, beef has the same nutritional value. Doesn’t matter whether you are buying filet mignon or the hoof. You tell your sister over there.”

Now, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be gallant and complimentary to Ma or to intentionally insult me. I held my tongue.

“Y’know, my wife says I talk to all the women, but I only talk to the pretty ones.”

I chuckled and realized he must be like Dad, married to a shrew (God bless Ma) and had to chat with strangers to pass a pleasant moment or receive validation. I put on my best smile, and we continued our separate ways.

Ma had accosted one of the meat managers and asked for a particular cut of meat. He went  through the swinging doors and returned with a half dozen packages. He carefully placed them in the meat case.

I selected a likely candidate and presented it to Ma for the ritual blessing until she found one she was well pleased with.

The meat manager was stocking the roast chicken bin.

“The meat’s all blessed and kosher,” I told him as I passed by.

He chuckled.

In produce, I noticed several adult children helping Weeble parents. We sounded like a herd of barnyard kids. “Maaaah, do you want the plum tomatoes or the Big Boys?” “Maaaaah, are these carrots ok?” Maaaaah. 🐐

Ma fingered the plum tomatoes. Her eye caught the 99 cent per pound over the Big Boys and one of the plums suicided to the floor and rolled under the counter.

I looked around, but no one noticed the sacrifice the little tomato made.

Ma wanted two pounds of the Big Boys. As I’m stuffing tomatoes into the plastic bag, I mouthed, “Don’t get the biggest ones. Take the smallest you can find.”

Around and around produce we went. Ma exclaimed over the high prices. There were sympathetic replies from other Weebles across the department.

Dad finally caught up to us, his basket amazingly laden with goods. Cereal, toilet paper, paper towels.

“Her Royal Heiney has a desire for prune juice,” I told him and sent him on a quest to the other side of the store from whence he came.

Ma zipped over to the bakery. She wanted a loaf of French bread. Some loaves had been put out that were warm and fragrant.

Another display captured Ma’s attention, and the old lady caromed off a table laden with pies. One pie box got caught by the backrest of her scooter. She did not stop but hit the accelerator and the pie box crumpled, and the tin pie pan curled up slightly.

We have a brand of commercial pies called ‘Table Talk’. This pie should be labeled ‘Table Gag’. I wonder how long before it appeared on the bargain table.

Dad had witnessed the pie fiasco and sang his own version of the “She’s Stupid” song.

Finally shopping was finished in record 2 hours. I directed the Weebles to a checkout line and left to troll the parking lot for a handicap space. No handicap spaces were available, but one next to a handicap slot miraculously opened up.

The Weelbes came out. Ma was toddling and pushing a carriage. Usually, she zipped across the parking lot on the scooter, neither looking right nor left for on coming traffic. I wondered why the change of routine. She hit an incline and the carriage slowly rolled forward with Ma wobbling behind. I’m reminded of a little toy I used to have. Donald Duck had a wheel barrow. If you put Donald with his wheel barrow on an incline, he would shuffle and sway his way down the track. Ma looked just like that.

I grabbed the carriage and Ma and we slowly made our way to the car. I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm for support and carefully guided her to the front seat. I’m struck by the idea of our role reversals. She is small and frail. How many times did she take my hand and guide my shaky steps when I was a toddler?

Groceries and Weebles finally loadeded into the car. I headed for the Weebledom. One quarter a mile away from Mahket Basket, Ma asked, “Would your husband be able to do me a favor later today?”

“What do you need?” I’m thinking she wanted their postage stamp of a lawn mowed.

“I need toilet paper, paper towels and Tide.” Her tone is wheedling, pathetic, and at the same time manipulative.

“What the ^#$@?” I shout in tongues. “Dad had toilet paper in his carriage.”

“I made him put them back. They were too high priced. If there’s time, you could take me to Donlan’s and that other place.”

“Why the %$@#$@ didn’t you just buy them at Mahket Basket.” My voice  rose to a dangerous level. I felt a pain form behind my left eye and had the fleeting thought to slam the car into the nearest phone pole.

“He wanted $9.99. Brooks has it for $6.99. I save $3 dollars!” she says smugly.

“You save money? You? What about me? Gas is $3.00 a gallon. I’ll burn one getting you to Brooks. There’s the $9.99 you tell me where the savings is.”

She folded her arms across her chest and began shouting "I know what I’m talking about."

Fine!

I’m steamed. Yes, go ahead, I can hear you laughing your ass off! “Better you than me!” I can hear you. I should have just driven them home, but instead, cut across three towns to get over to Donlan’s and Brooks. Donlan’s for a jumbo pack of paper towels and Brook’s for toilet paper and Tide.

“Joe, what would be the best way for her to go?”

“I’m going the best way!” I roar. “Sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride.”

I hear “You go, girl!” from the back seat.

I’m not very familiar with the area. It’s changed a lot in the nearly 22 years I’ve been married, but I find Donlan’s and pulled into their parking lot. “Where’s this other store?”

“Across the street.” She is fumbling for blank checks.

Across the street is an Einstein bagel store. I’m pretty sure they don’t carry Tide and toilet paper there. Maybe they’ve come up with a new go together and slogan. ‘Let our hole take care of your hole.’

Dad pointed to another building just opposite Donlan’s , “That’s Brook’s”.

Fine.

“You go in Brook’s and I go in Donlan’s otherwise we’ll be hear all %@#%@#$ day!”

“What am I going to get in Brook’s?”

“Toilet paper and Tide!” Ma shouted at him.

I’m fuming as I headed into the store. “Driving the #$@!@# Toonerville Trolley!” I really loathe grocery shopping.

Back at Weebledom as I helped Dad unload the groceries I told him. “You better warn her this is the last time we go all over creation for one item here and one item there. It won’t happen again.

He’s sympathetic, but I know his hands are tied.

I burn rubber out of the driveway. I gave a primal scream at the end of their street.. I headed back to The Pike, one hand on the horn and one hand out the window. I felt the tension ease as I cross under I-495, the line of demarcation between Civilization and The Land of Here There Be Dragons.

“Y’know, Kid,” I told Himself as I wound down my tale. “The idea of moving to some Godforsaken place like Nebraska is starting to look appealing. Might have to go online to start job hunting for you. They must have one community college that needs a chemistry professor. Maybe you could work for some company that refines ethanol from corn. That’s about all they have out there anyway.”

“Your day could have been worse. You might have had to travel to Millis to pick up a pair of pinking shears because they were on sale like my mother wanted. Remember?”

“I think I’ll have that aspirin, now.”

By the way, may I direct your attention to the map. Notice the nice Stop and Shop grocery store just two miles from the Weebles house? Also Roche Bros. and Donlan's. One stop, one store. Sounds like a good mantra for me.

TBT: Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

  In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Friday, April 06, 2007

Pinball Wizard

I was congratulating myself that this Mahket Basket trip would go smoothly and efficiently. I had told my brother about their shopping pattern. He accurately described it as a game of pinball. Not this time! Each Weeble had a list and each Weeble would work half the store. Ma would cover meat and produce, and Dad would take Dairy and the aisles.

Ma and I headed toward produce. Not the most logical way around the store, but at least we were headed in a direction. She spotted a table display of bananas on sale. She wanted bananas. I got to the display, reached to grab a hand of bananas. Suddenly, I’m slammed from behind.

“Get a big one!” she yells.

I’m bent over the banana table. “I did!” I roared “Back up!”

Pinball and the silver ball just tilted.

She backed up and roared around to the tomatoes. Big Boys were at a good price. She ordered me to get 3 pounds of the smallest size I could find. As I placed the tomatoes in the bag, I said a prayer for the Big Boy that lost its life at her hands two weeks before.

She went down her list, shouting the item, and I limped along, offered the item for her blessing or excommunication. Some of the prices went up, and she was not happy.

We hunted produce for a ten pound bag of potatoes. All we found were five pound bags of regular and organic potatoes. A worker was putting out bags of potatoes. She told him she wanted a ten pound bag. He told her they didn’t have any in ten pound bags. We circled produce again looking for ten pound bags. Ma asked the produce worker again for a ten pound bag. She kept telling him the store always carried ten pound bags. He told her to buy two five pound bags. She did not buy any.

We finished produce and blessed the meat. I glanced at my watch, smiled as we were making good time. I had spotted Dad a time or two, but he was no where in sight. I wished I had taken my brother’s advice to tie a balloon to Dad for an easy, inexpensive Jo-jack location device.

Ma began trolling the aisles. I winced at every corner she had to take envisioning Little Debbies cascading to the floor. She cruised at ramming speed and slammed a young man in the coffee can. She moved off, shrugging and making apologies. She reminded me of the late President Reagan, and his famous Ronnie shuffle for avoiding the press.

Dad caught up with us, but announced he needed to get pickles.

“You were over that side of the store an hour ago!”

He smiled sheepishly at me and shrugged his own version of the Ronnie shuffle. I decided it would be faster if I got the pickles. I was admonished to get them only if they were 99 cents. Did I find 99 cent pickles? No, found them for $1.19. Now, if this were my shopping, I would follow the Little Princess Method of Shopping. If I wanted the item, I would buy the item and most likely not glance at the price. I head back to where I left the Weebles, but they are no where to be found! Balloons, it would have been so simple.

The store is not large, but suddenly it was enormous. I needed to put out an APB. I went round and round, up the same aisles and down. I heard the pinball machine pinging crazily as I, the silver ball, banged the bumper. Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding. At this rate, I was destined for a replay.

Finally found them waiting in line at the deli. The department after dairy where Dad would have started his run. Those Weebles sure play a mean pinball.

TBT: Reprints from CJ's Whine and Cheeze

 In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.

At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

The Day the Checks Stood Still

I had a nice chat with the postal inspector, and though he couldn't help, he was sympathetic. He's been chasing after the scammer that sent Ma the $250 check. According to him, "the guy is a big player." He chuckled when I told him I hoped Ma got burned. Some people just need to learn lessons the hard way. He also told me if I wanted to tell her a story, to frighten her into stopping the lottery nonsense, he would back me up. Anything I told her. Even if I told her she was on the postal inspector wanted list for passing bad checks. As I said, there wasn't much he could do, but I felt better after talking to him.

I had a dream that Ma finally got the message about the checks. My dream was like watching a movie. The Day the Checks Stood Still. Michael Rennie reprieved his role as Klaatu, galactic ambassador along with his robot side-kick, Gort.

With Ma in front of him, Klaatu gave her a stern warning. "It doesn't mean you have to give up any freedoms, except the freedom to act irresponsibly. It is no concern of ours how you run your own finances, but if you threaten to extend your nonsense by trying to cash illegal scam checks, we will have no choice but to reduce your house to a burned out cinder."

Ma had several checks in her hand, and asked Klaatu to give Dad a ride to the bank so the old man could deposit the checks.

Klaatu looked at Gort. "Gort, barringe."

The visor on Gort's helmet slowly raised, his laser flickered and began to burn to full power.

I didn't get to see the end of the movie as I woke up.

T Stands for Breakfast for Lunch

After a rainy Spring, we finally got a nice day to visit the Massachusetts Veterans Memorial Cemetery where my parents are buried. We missed a visit Mother's Day, but we made it on July 8, four days after the Fourth of July which would have been my parents' 82nd wedding anniversary.

The grounds are absolutely pristine. The cemetery doesn't allow planting, windchimes, statues or personalizing the grave in any way. I'm pretty sure that after I leave flowers and when we have driven out of site, the groundskeepers swoop in and toss the flowers away.

One of the groundskeepers was in the section I was visiting. He asked if I would put my flowers on the side of the headstone instead of in front as this area was going to be mowed and it would make their job easier. No problem.

When I visit, I always visit Ma's side of the stone (the back) first. She was funny that way. Her nose would get bent out of joint if we didn't greet her first. So I still carry on the tradition. I put the flowers to the side of the stone just as the groundskeeper asked.

The flowers are always for Ma and Dad would have been pleased with that. He wouldn't have minded. He would have just been happy to see us.

Since I can't leave stones or a token to let the folks know we visited, I leave bird seed. If a seed gets blown off the stone and germinates whatever grows is just going to get mowed down. The birds or critters might get a treat, too. The Weebles would have liked that as they enjoyed watching birds at their birdfeeder. In any case, nothing permanent left. No harm, no foul.

After the cemetery, we stop at The Cracker Barrel restaurant on the way home. It was a hot day and we arrived at lunch time. I was hoping for an ice tea and a sandwich, but their lunch menu was pretty much dinner entrees and none of them interested me. One thing you can always get all day at Cracker Barrel is breakfast. We started with beignets, I had a cup of tea and

the blueberry pancake breakfast which came with egg (I had them scrambled) and bacon or sausage. The blueberry pancakes also came with blueberry syrup. Perfect!

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