DIGGING UP THE RECENTLY BURIED PAST...

Back in 2008, a close friend of the family passed away during the coldest days in recorded modern history. I drove my recently widowed Mother out to New Jersey for this funeral, as the snow the night before all but cancelled the poor man’s wake and pushed everything into a

 one-hour time frame.

After the prayer service was said in GREEK!, we journeyed to the cemetery for his burial rites. When we approached the gravesite, we saw that they had constructed a tent with chairs below it…we had desperately hoped that they would have thought to bring in giant heaters, to keep the mourners alive themselves.

               

This was a wonderful man, so it was standing room only. One of the nephews, who is like a brother to my brother and I,
 took charge of holding up my Mother;
the other nephew,
the brother of the brother who is
….blah blah blah….
he held on to me, because my teeth and bones were rattling so loudly,
 that I was becoming a public nuisance
 to the other mourners.

When the Greek prayers
started all over again,
I knew we’d all be dead, before long.

Greek prayers can be killer,
 in a perfectly air-conditioned church,
 no less 700 degrees below zero, Fahrenheit,
 in New Jersey in January.

 I huddled for survival
 into the warm coat
of the brotherly nephew,
until I was distracted
by a very distracting ruckus.
 I happened to look up at the
split second that the other-brother did;

we looked at each other,

completely confused in our expressions.

WTF is that noise???????
For some asinine reason,
 the geniuses that run the cemetery
 had a pump not only running,
 but smack in the middle
 of our mourning tent.

Now my Greek is not
all that stellar,
even after all of my attendances
 in this family’s religious milestones,
 but I thought it would be nice
 to be able to actually hear
what the priest was saying.

He looked like a cartoon,
where the guy is speaking
 and the blare of traffic
drowns him out,
 precisely as he tries to
 utter another word.

John handed my Mother off
 to another Greek and
 walked toward me.
 Without a word,
he sort of motioned to me,
 “Whaddah think we should do??” In my best sign language,
I ran that ‘ol lateral hand across my throat,
 hoping no one else picked up
on my gesture and read it incorrectly.

He instantly walked over
 to the God-forsakenly
 rude pump and
 pulled the plug.
I swear there was
silent applause of approval,
 that someone had the brains
 to do the right thing and
 not leave us hearing for the next 20 years
 about how his grieving widow
 missed her husband's service.

So, Greek or not,
the inflection in the priest’s words
 were heartfelt
(ok, I could tell by how much
 the widow was crying.)

From the burial, we ventured

to the warmer pastures of a

Greek! Diner,

to raise a toast to Mike and
eat some Greek! fish.
 

I had a wooly for a B.L.T.,
but I remained respectful and
 ate my Cod.

I was seated across
 from the Greek priest,

who was regaling us
 with stories of how
 his elderly parishioners would
INSIST
on taking him to

Medieval Times,

in Lyndhurst, New Jersey.
 Now since I was on a
Superhero-roll
from our earlier escapades
 in the cemetery, 
I decided to throw him
a fun-loving rash of shit.
 I gently suggested that
since these folks were
 on fixed incomes,

that perhaps he ought to
INSIST
on nothing more than
 a good Greek! Diner or McDonald’s,

at the most.

He started to get
a little irked with me,
 that someone might over-hear
my offerings of frugality
for the sake of the elderly and
 pass the word that this
 ‘jousty joint’
 indeed,

cost an arm and a leg.

      --->>>>>     <<<<<---

I informed my captive audience
 that I was indeed a little bummed
 that we went for the Greek! diner and
 not a good joust in Lyndhurst.

I also threw in a cute visual of Fr. Athens
 wearing the provided Medieval Times
 cardboard crown,

 

WITH his full robed-vestments…
insinuating that he was going
 for a Greek Orthodox-Archbishop'y
kind of thingy,

 3 or more times a month.

Although he is clearly
 a ‘man of the cloth’,
 I know he was praying
 to our Heavenly Father,
to render me mute.


 Everyone else at the table
was rolling on the floor and
deeply encouraging me
to go on,
 as they had endured a lifetime
of this man of god and
 were thoroughly enjoying my

non-Greek! capabilities.

Being the fine sport that I am,
 when we were leaving,
 I went and kissed his ring.

Just  f’ing with you. 




I gave him a hug and
told him what a wonderful job
 he did today

(I think he did.  I can't be sure.)

He seemed as though
 he instantly forgave my
smart-assed, captive-audience performance.
 He told me that I was
a very funny woman,
who had missed her calling!




No shit, Father.

Ok. That was fun fluff,
 to get us three weeks into the future.
I’m home one evening and I get a call
from my Mother.
She’s all verklempt,

even though she’s Catholic


and




 I’m Presbyterian.


She proceeds, through tears and
 near-shrieking,
to tell me that she just
 got off the phone with
Angie, the Greek!
widow from three weeks prior.

 Angie is just beside herself,
 because she had received a call
from the cemetery
 that interred her husband,
 informing her that he would have to be


 un-interred,


 but quick.

 APPARENTLY, during the burial service,


 “A pump that was diverting water


 from Mike’s grave

WAS TURNED OFF by


 SOMEONE IN ATTENDANCE,

 as none of the ditch-diggers


 touched it.”

Ergo, Mike is not so much as buried,
 but floating,
with streaming water flowing up and
out of his brand-new resting place,


 like

               

Texas Tea.

She and the family
 had to be present for the

un-interring


 and thus, relocating of Mike.

As the hoist pulled Mike
 from 'Slot A',
water was POURING out
 of his casket like the

Fountain at Trevi,

apparently rendering
whatever the material coffins
 are made out of, into mush…….
thus requiring a
brand-new permanent bed for Mike,
 along with that
brand-new permanent view,

in 'Slot B'.  

Yikes.

My Bad....

~SusiTheBigFatGreekJ~