Effed in Evanston: What A Wonderful Life

What a day, what a day.

My late great Aunt Frankie is in the sewing room in her favorite soup tureen.

Yes. IN it.

This has been one weird week.

My "nuculars" have been a tower of strength in this time of loss, with the exception of when my husband questioned the wisdom of our old-fashioned mode of transport—the family car— and tried to dump me at Wilkes-Barre International Airport.

Okay, yes, there was the unfortunate episode with the littlest at the Perkins Family Restaurant in Dubois, PA, but really it was no better than they deserved. If ever food called for regurgitation...

And there was the husband’s last stand at a rest stop in Ohio (we stopped at so many, I’ve lost count). He was practically channeling my dead dad, complete with arm flailing for a target at which point I chimed in with the timeless classic, “I’m going to reach back and hit somebody and I don’t care who it is.”

But at that Super 8, we were one. Heartache to heartache, we stand. Stood. Whatever.

Back to the dearly departed, my Aunt Frankie is everywhere in this humongous house of hers (it has an old mahogany elevator!!) Except, she’s not. Well, I guess some semblance of her is upstairs but, really, death is a little too final for my liking. I mean, one minute you’re waving at each other on skype and then the next, you’re gone. Must be why they call them “dearly departed.”

In between subjecting me to super slow mo replays of the supremely embarrassing time my party dress spun up on the dance floor at a family wedding , my cousins are discussing where exactly in the backyard of their awesome family manse to bury Aunt Frankie. Not sure that’s legal but who really cares?

I wish I felt more profound but if ever I could have used a medicinal pot delivery, it was today as the honorifics were flowing at the unfuneral. Unlike all the well-wishers today, I did NOT love Aunt Frankie because she was sweet. I loved her because she was lemon-garlicky: tart, tangy, a little salty.

She knew she had a wonderful life and she never, ever took it for granted. Never phoned it in. Never begrudged anybody for anything. Always shared. 

One of her recent paintings, telling in retrospect...

As somebody who never attended a funeral before my dad’s at age 27, I’m a latecomer to the funeral scene. But, it’s my understanding that families do not routinely keep their dead loved ones on shelves in the closet or on countertops.

And yet, I’m pretty sure my husband’s grandmother is still in my mother-in-law’s bedroom closet and I know our beloved maine coon Booman is permanently perched in his little white box next to my PIC’s desk.

So, it’s all been (dare I say it) very sweet and somewhat surreal. I just hope I don’t spend eternity in my son’s sock drawer. 

Not to change the subject but I think FIPS should sell franchises. Effed in Albuquerque. Fucked in Fargo. I don't know. I think this could be a money maker.