The Devil’s Airline

I’m sitting at gate 27 at San Francisco International Airport and already I’m not happy. Naturally, when you’re buying last minute tickets everything is more expensive, but I managed to find a ticket for just shy of $500.00 ostensibly via US Airways. In reality, only my first leg is aboard US Airways. The connecting flight today and the first leg of the return flight are on United Airlines and the final leg on Virgin America.

When I arrived at SFO I went to curbside check-in where they informed me that because my ticket was purchased after July 9th there was a $15.00 fee for checking my suitcase and that because of this I had to check in inside. Fine. Not happy, but fine.

They do not help you on this airline! There is a self service kiosk where you help yourself. The damn thing only gave me my first boarding pass. The guy who wasn’t helping me said, “Oh yeah. That’s ’cause you’re next flight is on a different airline.”

“Yes but you sold it to me.”

“Yeah. Sorry. So down that way and to your left.”

NOT off to a good start.

By the way I’ve written this post on iPhone. Good on ya WordPress!

Obituary & Travel Plans

This is the official obituary, written by the funeral home, for my grandfather.  It’s not exactly new information, but it does potentially correct some erroneous information previously provided.

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Dr. [Papa] passed away peacefully in his home in Cañon City , Colorado , Monday evening, July 21^st. He was born in Olean, New York, October 4^th, 1916, the 2^nd youngest of eight children.

He graduated from Olean High School, attended Seattle Pacific University and studied at Texas Christian University. He received an honorary doctorate degree from Whitworth College, Washington State.

He was inducted into the U.S. Army and served his country as a lieutenant during World War II. July 8^th, 1947, he married [Granny] in Los Angeles, California and initially worked as a member of The Navigators, an evangelistic mission. Later he joined the Billy Graham Association, his main vocation, and served nationally and internationally setting up crusades and training counselors. Once retired from this, he continued his Christian work by holding Bible studies in prisons in Cañon City until recently. He authored the book, Learning to Walk with God with a study guide.

He is survived by a son [Dead Beat Dad] of Cincinnati, Ohio, a son [Presumed Dead Hippy], a daughter, [Hardworking Homemaker] of Parker, Colorado, a sister-in-law, Myra of Lockport, NY, a brother-in-law, James, of Corning, NY, 6 grandchildren and 4 great grandchildren.  (Startedliving can only count two great grandchildren, and a third still brewing.)

 

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I was asked a few days ago if I wanted to be a Pallbearer.  My immediate answer was that I did not have anything appropriate to wear for such a duty.  In my mind the case was closed because it wasn’t a possibity.   In a subsequent conversation with CPA Sis I was told that Hardworking Homemaker didn’t want me to feel like I couldn’t do it if it was important to me, and she was willing to reimburse me for a new suit if that was what needed to happen. 

CPA Sis:  Hardworking Homemaker wants to know if you want to be a pallbearer and she’s willing to pay for your suit if you do.

I was struck by the fact that I really didn’t know the answer to that.  I have mixed feelings about it.  I do not want to see my grandfather’s body.  I learned the hardway that the being in that coffin is not my Grandfather.  First of all Papa was down to about 85 pounds when he died.  He was nearly six feet tall and in his prime, he was closer to 200 pounds.  Secondly, the fact that his spirit (and his blood) have left his body, changes the appearance of him.  I do not need to remember him that way.  I’m counting on the idea that the casket will have already been prepared and sealed by the time I get to it.

In discussing it with Hardworking Homemaker, I realized that the only answer I could give was, “I don’t know the answer to that, and that tells me I better do it so I don’t wish I had later.”

So I went to Men’s Wearhouse last night, and bought a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes.  $620.00 later, I have new black suit that acutally fits, which I am picking up tomorrow evening before flying to Denver on Sunday Morning.  I’ll arrive in Denver at about 7:30 where I’ll meet up with CPA Sis and Mr. Mom, (her husband) and we will rent a car and drive to Cañon City.  The funeral is Monday Morning and should prove to be a long day.  Memorial Service, then burrial and then lunch at the church with family and out of town guests.  I’ll spend the night in Cañon City again on Sunday.  CPA Sis and Mr. Mom are flying out of Denver and back to New York on Tuesday morning, but my flight doesn’t leave until 6:04 pm Mountain time.  Details of my transportation are yet to be resoloved but I’m not too worried bout it.  I arrive back in San Francisco at 10:55.

I was really hoping that CPA Sis and Mr. Mom would bring their daughters with them (no snappy nicknames yet).  Unfortuantely, that’s not really possible.  At $750.00 a ticket it didn’t make sense to bring them along and have to deal with the disruption and five and three year old would cause.  Vengeful Mother was to visit CPA Sis and clan starting this past Tuesday.  She opted to go ahead with the visit which is good and bad.  Even though she knew what she was getting herself into, she’s still seen fit to make an issue of the fact that her visit with CPA Sis has to be cut short.  On the other hand the three of them decided that she will stay in New York with the girls while CPA Sis and Mr. Mom come to the funeral.  Vengeful Mother is scheduled to leave this Tuesday afternoon, and Mr. Mom’s dad is coming in the same day. 

Tuesday looks to be a pretty hectic day for them.  I don’t know the logistics but CPA Sis and Mr. Mom fly back Tuesday morning, in time to pick up Mr. Mom’s dad, everyone go to lunch, and then drop off Vengeful Mother for her return trip.  I do not envy CPA Sis and Mr. Mom on this one.

Even though I’m going to be home on Tuesday, I’m still taking the rest of the week off work which will be nice.  The next major disruption of my life is to be the remodeling of my regretably pink bathroom.  More on that, and hopefully pictures, later.

Mr. Mom talked about buying me a ticket to come see them in the next month or two.  I’m thinking the smart thing is to coordinate that visit with the bathroom remodel.  Scared Kitty won’t be too happy about that but he’ll survive.

Four Cats and a Funeral; or A Foreshadowing Dream

I had a dream on Sunday night. I dreamt that my Grandfather had just died. He’d already been eugoogalized and put into the ground. The dream took place, primarily in someone’s garage where Dead Beat Dad, and my step-monster, (we’ll call her Gigi the Home Wrecker, because well, my Precious Nieces #1 & #2 call her Gigi and she HATES it. That’s a good enough reason for me! I suspect the “home wrecker” part speaks for itself.) were selling off my grandfather’s possessions. There were a number of valuable items that were being sold for a significant sum of money.

I do not remember what kinds of items were being sold, but I do recall that there were some items I wanted to have and I didn’t have money to purchase. I remember arguing with Dead Beat Dad and Gigi the Home Wrecker about the fact that it wasn’t fair or right to sell these items to complete strangers when there were family members who wanted them. Dead Beat Dad did waver some in his determination, but Gigi the Home Wrecker bullied him, as usual, until he agreed to her side of things and refused to allow the items to be taken by family.

In one corner of the garage was what I could only refer to as a cat farm. Imagine a four foot by six foot miniature farm, made of Legos, complete with a farm house, a barn and fields and pastures. And with-in this miniature farm were about 250 tiny cats. (Think “Pussy” from Rick & Steve, but the size of a snail.) The entire set-up, cats and all, was being sold at this Garage Sale, and in my dream I was very disturbed by the fact that these poor living beings that had just lost their care-giver were being sold of to random strangers.

Me: “You’re selling the cat farm? You can’t sell the cat farm! That’s just not right!”

Gigi the Home Wrecker: “What’s wrong with it?”

Me: “They’re living creatures that need to be taken care of. How could you possibly sell them off to complete strangers?”

GtHW: “What else are we going to do with them?”

Me: I’ll take them back to California with me.

Dead Beat Dad: “There are 250 of them. You can’t possibly take all this back on the plane!”

He was right, of course. Taking the Cat Farm was just not an option. I could see that I wasn’t going to win this argument, so I left the garage. I went to my luggage and retrieved two portable pet carrying bags. I went and found the four cats (two of the cats belonged to Dead Beat Dad and the other two to Vengeful Mother) that were wondering around the property and stuffed them in the two bags and took off for the air-port. I may not have been able to prevent them from selling off Papa’s things that I wanted to keep, but I took their cats. Somehow, that made up for it all.

The four cats were as follows:

Puff The oldest of the four by far. “Puffer” was a cat that Gigi the Home Wrecker’s younger son had found abandoned somewhere when I was four or five years old. When I was about eight years old Puff was diagnosed with Feline Leukemia. She suffered greatly and developed huge tumors and open soars. GtHW couldn’t bring herself to have Puff put to sleep for a long time and so Puff suffered far more than she should have been allowed to. Dead Beat Dad finally stepped in and had Puff delivered from her agony.

Angel The next oldest Cat. Angel was surgically attached to Dead Beat Dad, always on his lap, or on his shoulder or lying on his butt at night. Angel was Dead Beat Dad’s cat. She was only three or four years old when Puff went away, which must have been a great relief, as Puff and Angel were not friends. Angel lived about 16 years. I don’t really know what finally killed her (I assume old age, though 16 isn’t old for a cat.)

Muppet A cantankerous old fart of a kitty. Muppet was Vengeful Mother’s favorite. She obtained him from a close friend whose unspayed cat had a litter of kittens and they needed good homes. Muppet caught her eye right away and while VM had no intention of taking in any more pets (we had a dog and that was enough) she came home that day with the little guy in her purse and a bag full of cat supplies. This was 1990. Sadly, Muppet had to be put down a few years ago. I don’t really know what happened to him, I just know that VM came home from work one day to find him flat on the floor, very lethargic and weak of voice (something he was not at any other time.) For several years before, Muppet was stinky, and his ears itched and he produced a significant amount of disgusting ear wax. He’d gotten ear mites and VM did nothing about it because, she said, she couldn’t afford to take him to the vet. It always bothered me, but there was nothing I could do.

Miss Kitty Of the four, Miss Kitty is the youngest, and the only one still alive. She, too, has had her share of health issues, but so far she’s hanging in. Miss Kitty is two years younger than Muppet. For some reason Miss Kitty was a big eater. She got to be very fat! When my beastly child came along a year later, she was lazy and too fat to run and therefor quite often the victim of Scared Kitty’s youthful exuberance. (Scared Kitty is afraid of all people he doesn’t know. He hides behind my recliner every day when I come home from work and when my former roommate of six years comes over to visit he hides from her until he determines she’s not leaving soon, at which point he comes out to investigate and realizes he knows her already. But that’s a whole lot of story for another time.)

Eventually, Miss Kitty got so fat that her stomach hung almost to the floor when she walked. It was at this point that VM determined that Miss Kitty needed a diet. VM put Miss Kitty on a new food that was designed for overweight felines. Miss Kitty almost immediately got sick. She’d throw up every time she ate (Perhaps Miss Kitty should be renamed Bulimic Kitty?) VM took Miss Kitty to the vet who ran tests and determined that the poor thing had developed food allergies to all traditional fillers used in cat food. He then gave VM a special prescription dry food which Miss Kitty should be able to eat. Miss Kitty did not care for this new food, and as cats will do, refused to eat, preferring starvation over bad taste.

In fairly short order Miss Kitty went from being a complete porker to so thin you could count her ribs. VM was very worried. It happened to be around the time that CPA Sis was graduating from University so Miss Kitty went into the kennel to be cared for and tested/treated at the same time. The situation was dire. If Miss Kitty didn’t eat and keep down some nutrition very soon she wouldn’t live. The Vet ordered, forced feeding by way of a plastic tube in her nose and down her throat.

So there stood nurse #1 with poor little tubed up Miss Kitty in her arms while nurse #2 popped the top on a can of the wet version of the food the vet had prescribed. The very moment those vapors hit Miss Kitty’s unblocked nostril she went nuts! She squawked and squirmed until nurse #1 let her down. Miss Kitty immediately accosted nurse #2 who put the can down on the floor. Miss Kitty went to town. She wouldn’t even stop eating long enough to allow the nurses to remove the plastic feeding tube.

Today, Miss Kitty gets gourmet, prescription, canned food (Veal and carrots, to be precise – the stinker eats better than I do) to the tune of $1.50+ per can and she eats 2/3 of a can a day. She’s a nice healthy weight, and last I heard was very youthful and spry!.

Well, I’ve gotten a bit off track here, so let me re-group. This dream, on it’s own, is just one of many random somewhat bazaar dreams I’ve had. But it was different. Usually when I wake up from one of these odd dreams I feel fine and it amounts to, “Hmmm! That was a weird one.” This one was different. Yes, the dream was weird, and the conversation with my therapist that came from it was even more weird, but this one was more than that.

I didn’t say anything about it to anyone, but I knew. I knew that this was the day that Papa would finally be relieved of his misery. This was the day he’d receive his eternal reward for all his Heavenly work. This was the day he’d be reunited with his wife whom he missed so desperately. As the day wore on I began to think perhaps I was wrong, perhaps he’d be spared to see another day. I was sitting at home at about 9:30 in the evening reading Dad Gone Mad one of my favorite bloggers when Ex Con Older Brother popped up on my screen on Instant Message.

Ex Con Older Brother: Dad just got home from the Reunion and on the way his sis called…

Me: Papa?

ECOB: Papa just died.

ECOB: Oh. You already knew?

Me: No. I mean, I did, but no. I dreamt it last night. You’re the first person to tell me.

ECOB: Wow.

I do not now, nor will I ever claim to be psychic, or have ESPN or be telescopic, but every once in a while, things like this happen, where I just know something even before anyone has told me. In this case, I don’t know if it was better or worse that I had the “forewarning”.

So, on Tuesday night, I told Deb my therapist about this dream and the fact that my grandfather died the next night. I talked about his life, and his children and the two sides of him. But I realized there wasn’t a whole lot to say. Yes, I’m confused or conflicted about my feelings and I don’t really know what’s what just yet. Then she asked me about the dream.

It brought up a lot of things. Old feelings about Dead Beat Dad and Gigi the Home Wrecker and how they came to be together. About the cats, and who they were important too and my feelings about them not being properly cared for. There was a lot of similarity between my parental units’ lack of proper care for their animals, and their lack of proper care for me.

I could go on for hours about Vengful Mother’s neglect and her self-deception, believing that she did well, by me, and about Dead Beat Dad’s abandonment and inability to find his way to a healthy relationship with out guilt and depression. And I probably have a lot to say about Gigi the Home Wrecker and the parts she played in destroying my childhood and in making me the confused and somewhat imbittered man that I am today. But I think perhaps that’s a rant for another day.

What’s so bad about dying?

I had this conversation with a friend of mine today. 

TV Addicted Mom:  “When did your Grandfather pass away again?”

Me:  “Monday night.  I Hate that phrase.  I don’t even know what it means.  Pass away.  The man died.”

TV Addicted Mom:  “Well, I was trying to be polite.”

Me:  “But that’s just my cold ass brick of a heart, talking.”

simultaneously

TVAM:  “But I forgot who I was talking to.”

Me:  “Exactly!”

What Constitutes Greatness; or Two Sides of a Dead Man

I keep resisting the urge to describe my Grandfather as a “great man”.  Lots of people think he was.  And I suppose in a lot of ways he was.  But what makes a man great?  Is it his deeds?  Is it his legacy?  Is it how his family reflects on him?  Is it how his children see him?

My father is not a great man.  He’s just a man.  He’s a man who made mistakes.  He cheated on his wife.  He abandoned his family.  He broke the law.  He alienated his children…  More than once.  He is the eldest child of my “great man” of a Grandfather.  What could have happened?

You see my Grandfather was a life long minister.  He was the second youngest of eight children all of who were raised by a single mother after their father walked out on them.  I don’t know that much of his history but I’d imagine that it was a typical scenario of the older children raising the younger.  When at the age of legal consent, whatever that was in the early 1900s, He joined the army.

After the Army, Papa, as my siblings and I called him, came back to the US and began working with a youth/young adult ministry called the Navigators.  Being in need of a home, Papa moved in with the head of the Navigators and his family and while living in this home, he met the families Nanny.  A lovely young woman nearly ten years his junior.  It amuses me the scandal that such a thing should have created, but after sometime living under the same roof, Papa and the Nanny fell in love.  Eventually, they married and they had three children.

No one doubts that Papa loved his wife and children, but his first commitment was to the ministry.  At some point after his time in the Navigators, Papa joined an organization called Youth for Christ, an organization with which he would maintain an affiliation for many years.  It was in fact at the Youth for Christ office in Kansas City, Missouri that Papa’s oldest son (my father) would meet his first wife (my mother) who was working as a secretary in the offices.  “Granny and Papa”, as we called them, almost like it was one word, one entity, as I suppose they were in a way, “GrannyandPapa.”  “Hey kids look at these gifts you received from GrannyandPapa.”  “GrannyandPapa are going to be in town next week and would like to see you guys.”  “GrannyandPapa are very upset with you because you didn’t write a thank-you note after they sent those gifts.”  That was the one that always put me off, but I’m getting ahead of myself.  Sadly, Granny and Papa didn’t approve of my parents relationship and made no secret of it.  And naturally, that only drove my parents closer together.  The first, in a number of steps my father would take to draw judgment and disappointment from his own parents.

There’s great irony in the fact that my Grandfather was a shy man.  A timid speaker.  He stuttered over his words and was not terribly eloquent in his early days.  But he believed that he had a calling and he was going to see it through to the end.  In his 30s, Papa was hired by the Billy Graham Association.  I don’t know what all the positions and responsibilities were that he held, but at some point there was a need for additional teachers to go out into the communities where there were to be Crusades, and teach the volunteers what they would need to do when the time came and the attendees of the Crusade came to them for prayer and counseling.  Papa had a burning inside to be one of these teachers.  Those who were in authority at that time loved my grandfather and knew he was on fire for this work…  But how could such a timid speaker be sent out to do what they were asking?  They acquiesced and gave Papa the work he so desperately desired…  But they sent him to the outskirts of the territory “where he would do the least amount of damage.”

I do not know exactly how the tale goes but I do know that Papa triumphed over his own fears and speech difficulties.  Over the course of time, he came to head this part of the organization.  As the head of this group, he touched hundreds of lives, ministering one on one to many people who would then minister to masses.  Eventually, Papa became Crusade Director and was responsible for everything that goes into planning and executing a Crusade.  He was Billy Graham’s right hand and they became best friends.

Two years ago, my grandfather turned 90 years old.  My aunt planned a surprise birthday party for him… Perhaps not the smartest thing to do for a man of 90 years, but surprise him, we did.  More than 150 people came to this party, and there were dozens more who couldn’t make the trip.  Billy Graham himself sent his regrets and his congratulations.  Ruth Graham was quite ill and couldn’t make the trip and Billy didn’t want to leave her side.

So many people, with such wonderful, glowing things to say about their mentor, about this “great man.”  I can only imagine the kind of bitterness that my own father must have felt.

You see all this marvelous work my Grandfather did always came at the expense of his own family.  Much of my father’s childhood was spent with what amounted to a single mother.  Papa was traveling the globe, doing his work with the BGA, often away from home for months at a time.  On a few occasions, he was away from his family for 6 months.  There were trade-offs, of course.  When school was out, Granny packed up the kids and off they’d go to meet up with Papa, where ever on the face of the earth he might be.  My father has seen parts of the world I doubt I ever will.  He always wished he could take my siblings and me to these places but it was never possible.

I had one of the best conversations I’ve experienced with my father that day after the party.  My father was hurt by the glowing, wonderful things these people had to say.  Had they any idea how my father had suffered for the work Papa did?  Could they understand how hard it was for him that Papa was such a wonderful “Father Figure”, as so many had called him, but he wasn’t much of a father to his own flesh and blood children?  I suppose there’s often a tremendous price to pay for “greatness.”

About six years ago, Granny was diagnosed with cancer and Papa finally retired for good…  From BGA.  Ministry was in his blood.  Without opportunities to minister his life had no purpose.  Fortunately, for him, the town in Colorado where they finally settled happens to be the home of three state prisons.  Naturally, he found a way to engage in prison ministry.  Four years ago,  Granny finally succumbed to the cancer that had been ravaging her body.  And when she died, something in Papa died too.  Oh, he continued with his life.  He continued with his ministry, but he was fading.  And then the final indignity.

Papa had been conducting a bible study with some of the low security inmates when he lost control of his bowels.  He was always a proud man and didn’t desire to be any more humiliated by this than he already was.  He did something that was out of character for sure, and certainly showed very poor judgment.  He handed his car keys to one of the inmate trustees and asked the trustee to bring his car around to the front.  Fortunately, the trustee did the right thing.  He brought the car to the front of the prison, helped my grandfather inside and walked back to the prison entrance.

Later that day, Papa received a call from the head of the prison ministry and informed him that the prison had asked that he not come back.  The explanation that was given my grandfather was that they feared for his safety as he was very old and getting more and more frail.  But everyone knows that they couldn’t allow a man who gave car keys to an inmate to return.

This happend about three years ago.  After that, there was nothing left.  His life no longer served a purpose in his own eyes.  His mind began to go.  He no longer could retain names and dates and new information.  And he missed his wife.  He wanted to be with her, and the only thing he wanted was to die, peacefully, at home, in his own bed.  And that’s just what he did.