Editor’s Note: There is plenty to talk about this morning, but the Infrastructure Bill- the ‘bi-partisan’ version of it is 2,700 pages and no one has read it, specifically referring to the people who are about to pass it and make law out of what the lobbyists gave them. I like the part that includes tracking miles- and locations- on our cars, now that we are going to mandate electric vehicles at some improbable time. I will reserve comments when I have completed a review of the other 2,699 pages.
– Vic
Dad’s Birthday
August mornings like this were Dad’s Day, not technically ‘father’s day’ or one devoted to ‘International Cats Day’ that the flatscreen is reminding us of amid the cool greenery. Instead, nearly a century ago, Grandma felt the need to deliver her last child, a small baby boy they named “William.” Or in current parlance, he was assigned his gender on that day.
It was part of the process of sifting through ancient junk that surfaced with the evacuation of the condo in Big Pink, some of the old family stuff surfaced. Little squares of paper that had been typed on an old typewriter by our Mom included all the special days. And all the memories.
Here in Virginia’s placid Piedmont it is starting slow but cool, with the authority of bright sunshine dancing on the green bows that frame the south pasture. It is a Sunday, this time around for Dad’s birthday. The creatures that surround us are muted in tone, perhaps deferring their calls to the sun for it to rise a bit more, and increase our surface temperature to the more assertive and seasonal 90-degree mark.
Digesting some of the assorted wreckage from the condo will take a few months. All those strange boxes the Hispanic crew drove down from Arlington will be carefully examined and tagged appropriately for preservation and reverence. Or simply directed toward the dumpster for disposal, as I recall doing in the driveway of the pretty little house on the bluff above Little Traverse Bay up in Michigan, 800 miles from here. The 1,600 miles round trip to check in and manage things was an inconvenience I recall being tangled up in other matters, a confusion of love and duty.
That minor confusion of distance includes memories of strange events. The arrival of my folks for the last time at the front desk, where building social monitor Ruth Ann gravely handed the box containing two other boxes of ash within. That led to other matters involving travel and planning, and the sudden realization that we ought to try to make our passing a little easier for people busy with other things.
That prompted other discussions. I had paid for my funeral shortly after dealing with those of others. The plan had been incineration, urn purchased and paid for, and interment at Arlington National Cemetery. There is some question about that now, due to the Greatest Generation now taking up the available real estate on the green hill above the mighty Potomac. So, there is a little uncertainty. There are a few squares of soil unused at the old family plot up in Pennsylvania, which was not my choice for eternity, but the company would be nice.
Grace sent me a note about what should be done, depending on who exits first. Her suggestion was delightful, and colorful. For a more spectacular send off, she found a commercial fireworks concern called “Heavenly Stars” which claims to offer a stunning range of professionally fired tribute displays. They claim displays are “designed to your specific requirements.”
We are not sure what those might be, but suggestions range from a favorite football team, or choreographed to a specific piece of music. Each display is “specifically created to send your loved one off into the heavens in spectacular fashion” through the use of high quality and stunning aerial shells, multi-shot barrages, roman candle and mines all culminating in a “truly impressive firework finale.”
I don’t know if our recent discussion about the passing of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson had an impact on that selection. His self-inflicted demise while on the phone with his wife is not one of the options on the table, though the finale was reported to be pretty cool. His ashes reportedly were blasted out of a military 105mm howitzer at his home in Woody Creek, Colorado, while Norman Greenbaum’s 1969 anthem “Spirit in the Sky” added light and sound to the spectacle.
That ceremony was conducted in August of 2005, and attendees included actors Johnny Depp, Sean Penn, Bill Murray, Jack Nicholson, and Senator John Kerry. Only Bill and Jack would make my list, but that is just personal.
Grace prefers “up” to “out” in terms of direction. The Writer’s Section is generally in favor of pyrotechnics and noise, those two features being a theme of all our lives. Sifting through the remains of Dad’s passing, I looked at the last picture I took of him while he lived, his tall thin frame ravaged by time. I don’t know if the quiet and respectful ceremony in rural Pennsylvania (and Ohio) is what he preferred, but it what the survivors decided was an acceptable compromise for the living.
Personally speaking, I suspect that a battery of 105mm synchronized firings over the south pasture would be too much effort to impose on my survivors. Still, some idle speculation on the matter is a welcome addition to bracket the first and last days we are allowed to spend on this green and growing earth.
There are some additional factors for consideration. Socotra House’s Bolivian-American work crew was helping on some household modifications yesterday, and the imposing pile of formal busines clothing was piled neatly for disposal on the bed at the back of the house. I offered three nice suits in case there was a need, and Edwin the team chief smiled and tried them on immediately. They seemed to fit him pretty well, and he said he needed some nice clothing or church services on days like this one. He smiled at me in appreciation.
“I am glad I will not have to wear a dead man’s clothing,” he said calmly.
I said: “Not yet,” I relied. “Usar la ropa de un hombre vivo. They are passed in the spirit of life for the living.” This dawn, on Dad’s birthday, seems to promise that sort of day, and there is company coming for a country luncheon. Life is good, and who knows, there could be fireworks some weekend to celebrate it properly. I need to think of some tunes I would not have considered for Arlington, just in case.
Some really loud ones that make your feet just want to dance.
Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com