“I saw the destruction of Dresden. I saw the city before and then came out of an air-raid shelter and saw it afterward, and certainly one response is laughter. God knows, that’s the soul seeking some relief…
Humor is an almost phsyiological response to fear. Freud said that humor is a response to frustration - one of several.” ~ Kurt Vonnegut, “Man Without A Country”
And, I quote that to tell this story.
There I was newly wed, happily married but still adjusting, of course. Mike and I had been together for a year and half when we were married. He had an unusual past and part of that was due to his father.
The father-in-law I knew and liked a great deal was not the man who married my mother-in-law or sired two men that are complete polar opposites (but, my rotten, bitter, psycho brother-in-law is another story entirely). When I met Pops he had an almost Cary Grant-like charm, adored children (especially toddlers) and was incredibly proud of his eldest son.
This was in direct contradiction to the man who surfed in southern California, grew up hot-rodding around San Pedro, and in some strange sort of twist became obsessed with hunting and moved his young wife and 2 young sons up to a remote mountain town.
Pops raised hounds, he hunted bears and mountain lions and was so well respected that the Department of Fish and Game hired him to guide them on surveys of the mountain lion population. By day he was an oil lease operator for Shell Oil Company, every other spare waking moment was spent with his hounds somewhere in the mountains carrying a gun and leaping creeks and ravines as if he had been born and raised on the mountain itself.
In short, he lacked that special parenting gene one requires to be an active and involved parent. Sure, he provided for his family… financially and really nothing more beyond that. Although, he did instill a healthy respect of nature and firearms in both of his children.
My husband’s parents divorced when he was in his early teens. His dad lost his job at Shell and eventually stopped hunting. He gained interest in other sports, specifically women, booze, drugs and motorcycles and not necessarily in that order.
Pops led a wild and freewheeling lifestyle. He became a biker, rode a Harley and protested all things helmet law related. Occasionally, he would disappear for days at a time but always managed to turn up. Mike, who by now was in his early twenties, was a regular attendee and partaker of most of Pops’ escapades. After all, an “illegal” was just a sick bird. (If you don’t get it say it out loud)
Somehow through the radical changes and over a period of several years he and Mike established a relationship that was part affection and part frustration on Mike’s part. The frustration came in when Mike decided he was done partying and wanted to straighten out his life and become a productive member of society. Pops never had a desire to give up the partying and it occasionally became a source of irritation for Mike, but Mike is an easy-going person by nature and he always managed to laugh it off and genuinely like his dad anyway.
The first time I met Pops I was at Mike’s bachelor pad making dinner. Mike had run to the store and there was a tap at the door. When I answered I found a tall, thin man with a friendly smile dressed in a denim jacket and black cowboy boots. He introduced himself as “Mike Sr.” and was polite, sweet and charming… basically the opposite of what Mike had told me to expect IF (big IF) I were to ever meet Pops.
About that time Mike arrived and had the most horrified look on his face. He barely choked out, “Hello Pops, I see you’ve met Amy. Sure hope you’ve been on your best behavior.” Pops seemed to find a great deal of amusement in Mike’s obvious discomfort, he gave a mischievous grin and assured Mike that he had been a gentleman.Behind Mike’s worry it was obvious that this was a guy who really loved his dad and the affection seemed mutual.
Almost a year later we were awakened late at night by the phone ringing. It was Pops calling to tell Mike that he had been diagnosed with cancer and that the prognosis was grim, to say the least. The following spring Mike and I were married and Pops was in one of the front pews of the chapel.
Another year and half went by and Pops was spending more and more time at our house recovering from chemo treatments and doctor’s appointments. He seemed to rapidly deteriorate right before our eyes. Still he was always as sweet and charming as the first evening I had met him. He told us funny stories and always had time to cuddle Kate on his lap and tell her stories. She loved Pops… and Kate was rather funny about people, in fact, she didn’t like very many at all.
It wasn’t long after that Mike and I woke up in the middle of the night. We sat there in the dark silence of our bedroom and we both just knew that it was over. Pops was gone. About fifteen minutes later we got a call from a hospice nurse to let us know that Pops had passed away.
Mike got up and drove the 45 minutes to Pops’ house. I got up and called my mom. By 9am I had most of the funeral plans in the works. It was the least I could do for my husband, I knew Mike would be an absolute mess.
I admit that my family can be strange. From my mother to my dearest cousin we have found a way to laugh at the most inapropriate times. Pops’ death was, unfortunately, a situation that was ripe for laughter.
Typically, when you go to make funeral arrangements, you make them with the funeral home where the body already is. By 9am the body had been removed and no one knew where it might be. I didn’t dare call my husband because I knew he was in no position to deal with it. Unfortunately, being in my early twenties, with only one very traumatic experience with a funeral at the age of 8… I was ill-prepared to make these arrangements myself.
Let’s face it… you’d have to be a very… special person to want to be a pro at this sort of thing anyway.
I called the first funeral home and explained that my father had passed away… the person who answered the phone was very sympathetic and seemed well versed in making all the politically correct, polite noises.
Me: The problem is, well, I’ve lost my father-in-law.
Idiot: Yes, dear, I understand that. This can be a terrible time for any family.
Me: No, you don’t understand, I’ve lost my father-in-law.
Idiot: Perhaps grief counseling might be helpful. The first step in the grief process is usually denial…
Me: Look, I’m sorry, but you don’t understand me… I’VE LOST THE BODY… THE BODY IS MISSING!!!!!!!!!!
Idiot: *silence* (I could almost hear her blinking)
Me: Hello?
Idiot: uh… well… this is unusual…
************
This same conversation was repeated with 3 other funeral homes before I finally found one who was helpful and knew the hospice that had taken care of Pops. They finally tracked him down for me. In between each of these calls I would call my mother back with an update and we would end up giggling almost hysterically for several minutes.
It was weeks before I finally told my husband that I had lost his father for several hours the morning after he had died.
He laughed (a lot) and said, “Well, I guess Pops couldn’t go out without one last disappearing act. He sure would have gotten a kick out of that. ”
