Skip to main content

Happy Father’s Day

The old, Catholic cemetery where family is buried is mostly Hispanic.  Whenever we would go to place flowers on graves, my father would make fun of all the seasonal decorations others would place on their loved ones’ plots.

If it was Christmas, there would be holiday decorations and twinkly lights; if it was Valentine’s, there would be heart-shaped Mylar balloons and cardboard Cupids shooting arrows.  Whatever the holiday, so was the tribute.

Dad made us promise we wouldn’t do this to him when he was gone.  He thought these were tacky and disrespectful.

Daddy died in January 2006 and we were so broken-hearted that we went back often to stand in silence by his grave site.  Mom made sure the headstone was set right, and afterwards we stayed away for months until Father’s Day approached.

No more ties, chocolates, or new shirts. This year we would all buy flowers as gifts.  As the day approached, we decided, one by one, to ease back into visiting his grave, and the first to go was appalled at what was there.  The ground had settled and it had sunk into an uneven hole.  Dad’s headstone was askew.  There was no grass, only weeds.

The alert was sounded.

Mom called the cemetery and made her complaint.  She demanded they fix his grave site immediately, then she supervised as they filled in his plot and straightened his headstone.  We showed up with carpet grass squares, garden tools, and water hoses.  We set to work.   

By Father’s Day, everything was as it should be – a fitting tribute to a good man. We all stood around his headstone in remembrance.  We placed our flowers, said our prayers, and (just for fun) we staked an oversized toy windmill in the center. It was big and red and tacky.   

Happy Father’s Day.


Popular posts from this blog

Finding My Muse

1)Because my muse has a wicked sense of humor and visits me at odd times and in inconvenient places, I have learned to record inspirations/ideas immediately before I forget them or they dissolve into nothing. I carry small notebooks, own a digital recorder, and have been known to text messages home. I will scribble on anything – old napkins I find in my glove compartment or old receipts. I even pop out of bed in the middle of the night to jot things on sticky pads. 2)Calendars are great places to find topics. I use important dates, seasons, and upcoming holidays to plan blog posts. I can also go back into my work calendar to refresh my memory about meetings, conferences, or books I have read that might be worth sharing with others.   3)I will sit with a good cup of coffee, pen and paper ready, and read the newspaper searching for topics, interesting characters, or modern trends.  News channels and other newsfeeds are just as good.   4)I love to read the TV and movie guides for titles and…

The Girl Who Eats Canned Spinach

I went to a Catholic elementary school run by strict Belgian nuns, and we could not leave the cafeteria until we ate everything served on our food tray. Once a week, they served warmed, canned spinach with our meal. The spinach tasted nothing like the way my grandmother made it, but I ate it. I gulped it down in three or four bites and it amazed my table mates. I told them we ate it at home so I was used to the taste. Now, my real problem began the day I ate the spinach off my friends’ trays so we could go play outside. As soon as the nun monitoring the cafeteria turned her back, my friends ate something off my tray I didn’t want, and I ate their serving of spinach. I only did it for two of my table mates, but the word spread. On the next Spinach Day, kids followed me to my table.I was suddenly very popular, and as soon as the nun marched off to the other end of the cafeteria, my friends and an army of others who only knew me as The Girl Who Eats Spinach, begged me to take their servin…

Facing My Fear of Guns

With the ownership of firearms comes responsibility, so I had asked HoneyBunch several times to teach me how to shoot and to help me get my License to Carry. I got my wish two weeks ago. HB and I signed up to take a LTC class. He bought me a gun, one similar to his, that would be the type we needed to show shooting proficiency, and for one whole week he tried to get me to become familiar with it, but I was hesitant. I read the booklet that came with the gun. I practiced loading and shooting it in what is called dry shooting (no bullets), and since the flyer said I would have to shoot thirty shots at different distances, I finally tried with it loaded. I was a nervous wreck. The class of twelve turned out to be close to forty people. We were of all ages, colors, and genders, and I was glad I wasn’t the only woman my age. The shooting test came first, and we were separated into two groups. Those who were proficient (or thought they were) would shoot first, and those who were novices wou…