Public Nuisance

Welcome October! While most people are writing about fall colors and pumpkins – I’m writing about using a public restroom – read at your own risk.

Mary and I just got back from spending a few days in North Carolina visiting our friends, the Kvitko’s. While the visit was great, the east coast three hour time change, is a tough one, for me the not too often traveler. We kept our friends up to two and three am each evening. They were starting to drag by day three but it only really affected us on the last day when we went to bed at 2:00 am and had to get up at 5:00am.

One of the weird little tweaks of the time change is in my digestive system. It’s bad enough that my colon is all messed up by being three hours ahead or behind (I’m not sure) – but Tuesday I had to use a public restroom in the airport. This not something I care to do, especially when I have to sit down.

As I went into the restroom, I had to search for the best stall. The “Best” means it should be at the very least, somewhat clean. It would be nice if it were private but clean would do. This is not an easy task to find clean facilities normally at an airport, but on this particular day, it was even worse. The first one I looked at was completely overflowing; this was not a good sign. The second one had a bit of wet floor – which I could have dealt with but there was no toilet seat. It was just gone. The third stall was filled to the brim with slowly dissolving paper and looked to be in the worse shape of all of them. I started thinking I must be in the restrooms at a Raider game! I couldn’t however, spend much more time looking. Things were, shall we say, moving right along and my intestines were saying “Pick a stall, ANY stall.”

Finally I came to the very last toilet stall. It was either this or I’d have to go back to the non toilet seat one and hover. (Hovering; the-squatting-position-without-touching-anything pose that most women have perfected by age ten, is not a skill I’m very good at.) This last stall did show promise. Yes, there was a small amount of water on the floor and some “moisture” on the rim, but things looked pretty good. I made a decision - this was it.

I quickly took some paper and cleaned the rim properly, then turned around and locked the door. Slowly and mysteriously, the lock unlocked itself and the door crept open. I knew I locked it, so I was compelled to peak out and see if someone was trying to get in (based on the shape of the other stalls this would not have been a big surprise!) No one was there so I locked it again and turned around and did the “pants suspended up high around the knees” routine so that my jeans wouldn’t touch the wet on the floor. It was bad enough that my shoes were in clear but questionable water – I didn’t want to have my pants get anywhere near it.

About midway during my business, the toilet began to flush on its own. I knew it was one of those motion detecting, automated lavatories but I’d never heard of one that created a “courtesy” flush for you – I thought, oh, how high tech is this?

My glee was short lived as the toilet water rose in the bowl. Soon it started churning out of control. Water came shooting out of the side of the rim and I mean “shooting” out. I thought for a moment it was some sort of violent Bedét. Water was spraying under the rim and off the wall saturating everything and quickly it began filling up the entire stall. There was at least an inch of water covering the floor.

I knew I had only one choice and that was to hunch over and do the two footed hop to get out of the way of the now overflowing toilet. Just then, the door stall opened (on its own) and smacked me in the head. Still in the hunch position I locked the door and then reached back for toilet paper – as I turned, the door opened up, once again, and hit me from behind.

Water is spraying everywhere, my elbow was keeping the door shut and would you believe it, no toilet paper. Luckily there were a few rolls in the dispensing system but I had to struggle with two hands to get the rolls down to usable position. Water was everywhere, empty paper rolls were floating by and the door whacked me three more times before I was done.

I was able to make my plane on time but I may have to destroy my shoes, simply for hygienic reasons.

Clean Room

“Bless me father, it has been a few months since my last blog.”

(That is for the Catholics in the reading audience – otherwise, I’m sorry I haven’t written for a while – but now I do have lots to talk about.)

Most recently was my trip to Manassas Virginia on a work detail. I had a one day shoot with two days of flying – I have a new found respect for those who fly much more than that every month. There is a lot time spent in airports, baggage claim as well as on the plane itself, that just isn’t productive.

The company I worked for did all the arraignments in my flights – they weren’t aware of my need for an aisle seat and Claustrophobia issues when sit by the window.

Most of my flights were on the aisle, however the first one I was stuck in the middle for a two hour flight to Denver. I got lucky when I tried to upgrade and the guy at the desk took pity on me and gave me the last aisle seat. I think he bumped some kid to a middle seat. The downside of this “upgrade” was that I was seated in the Spanish speaking child section. Did I say "Spanish speaking?" I meant Spanish YELLING! – These were without a doubt, the loudest kids on planet earth, at least over planet earth, that day. Even my nephews from Florida would have had a hard time keeping up with these kids on volume scale.

At one point I had had it with the noise. I couldn't even hear my movie through my “child screaming canceling headphones” –I kept thinking Clint Eastwood was speaking Spanish to me. I had to do something. Finally I turned to them and yelled: "Leache!" (The only Spanish word I know) and they just looked at me with shocked looks on their faces. I knew I had them with that line. A couple of seconds passed and then they went back to screaming at each other as if I had said nothing at all. A lot of good that high school Spanish class did for me.

I arrived safe and sound with all my bags – it was a little dicey there at first until I found out they put my tripod case with the golf clubs – maybe the airlines just figured I'd gravitate to that section of baggage claim eventually.

The company I was working for was very nice – they put me up in a Residence Inn – breakfast buffet in the morning, appetizers at night – and quite a spacious room. It was kind of like a little apartment, but without the annoying neighbors. It had a living area, a kitchenette – a nice soft bed – just like home but although there was no dog nuzzling into the crook of my arm in the morning. As a joke I asked the guy I was working for if he could get a dog in there to help me out – he kind of looked at me strange – as if he'd eaten a bite of bad fish. I guess he doesn’t get California humor.

One day, I had to photograph in a "clean room". I assume you all know, but if not, it's a room in a high tech facility that does everything they can to keep dust out. They make you wear booties over your shoes – boots over your booties (I thought this was overkill myself) a tight fitting jump suit, and a head bonnet so that none of my hair could fall out onto the semi conductors. I mean come on – it’s not like I have lot left to fall out? They tried to get me to wear goggles over my glasses – but I would have none of that, siting the creative hand cuffs that goggles would present. Finally a woman working there says; "Oh, you need a face mask for your beard."

I'm like are you kidding me? I have a damn head bonnet that barley exposes my eyes – I look like Lloyd Bridges from Sea Hunt for crying out loud! What do I need a beard protecting mask for? After a small protest – she told me to wear it anyway.

So she hands me this beard mask – essentially a hair net for the face – and I notice that it has been used. I really didn't want to wear a mask that someone else has already breathed all over. So I hand it back to her and say, "The elastic is worn out, (it was after I yanked on it a few times) – can I get another?"

So she looked flustered and went to get another one. I don’t think getting a choice of masks for the temperamental photographer was high on her list of things to do that day. I figured I cashed in my one free chit – so I was going to have to wear the next mask no matter what. She came back from around the corner and handed me “used mask” number two. I'm telling you – this is not a lie – that mask smelled. Whew! I didn’t expect that – there was no doubt that this mask had been used before. I should have known as she kind of had a sly grin as I put it on.

This is what I don’t get. I was asked to wear a new bonnet, a new jump suit and new boots that were hermetically sealed in plastic bags – but the one thing I have to wear over my mouth and nose is the “one of three masks” they have for the whole company to share!

I spent the next hour smelling someone else’s Korean Barbeque lunch inside the mask and let me tell you, the mask was the first thing to go when I was able to get out of my clean room disguise.

That's it for now - more to come later.

The Genericide of People’s Names

Most people use generic names for things every day. Some of the more famous ones are Frisbee, Coke and Band-Aid. Names that were once used as a product name have become so common place they have become “the” product no matter who makes it. That copier in your office is made by Cannon but what it makes is a “Xerox.” Hook and loop fasteners for fabric are made by many different manufacturers but it will always be Velcro.

This phenomenon got me thinking about people’s names and how over time, we have Genericided people’s names. This is done mostly to make us look like we can remember who the heck they really are.

Generic Names are the names you use when you can never remember the person’s real name. “Hey, hey, Guy, how’s it going?” There are several of them. Guy is a good starting point but it can be made more colorful with “Big Guy”. “Whoa, Big Guy I haven’t seen you for a while.” However if the no-name person has a bit of belly and just finished knocking back a strawberry milkshake from Jack in Box – you have probably forced the guy into visiting Weight Watchers and joining a gym.

These names can work across gender lines like instead of using “Guy” you can use “Girl.” This is especially useful if you live in urban areas. “What’d you do to your hair, Girl?” You can throw “Girl” at the end of just about any sentence and you are good to go. What you cannot do is the “big” part. In my experience, “Hey Big Girl”, has just never gone over well.

These names have evolved over time. What was likely someone’s actual name Bud, had become generic in Buddy or as one of my friends has adulterated it to; Bubbs. Not really endearing but it works better than that blank look on your face.

Another friend mutated the friendly term of “Chum” all the way to the lowly “Chumley”. Let’s just say it’s just a little patronizing when you are called the name of a dim-witted walrus from 1960’s cartoon.

A clever way to disguise this name forgetfulness on your part, is to use –“He”. As in “There He is.” You can slap the guy on the back and instantly they feel welcome. Innocuous in its delivery “he” or “she” works and no one is the wiser.

Some names work better at certain locations. You can use “Governor” if you’re out in an English pub or use “Chief” anywhere but at an Indian casino. Boss is another one that people use quite often but it can be misconstrued as demeaning. If you meet the CEO of your company in the hall and he calls you “Boss” it’s one of two things. The first and most likely reason –he has simply forgotten your name completely. Which in most cases is not all that good, but it could be worse. The other reason is to subtlety let you know there is a “boss” in the room and it ain’t you!

“Superstar” is just downright condescending. Unless you are Beyoncé, you know you are no superstar – and so does the offender – it just doesn’t need to be said.

“Tiger” is another one that is somewhat belittling. You’re going on and on about what a jerk a co-worker is and someone says – “Easy, Tiger.” They might as well say, “Take it easy loser, you’re no better than he is.”

We as adults have a whole slew of generic names for children. Heck, most people can’t remember the names of their own children, let alone someone else’s. That leads us to use names like, Sport, Kiddo and Little Fella or Little Chief.

An amusing name that started off as an affectionate term but has changed dramatically is “Pal”. If used properly it can still be a positive term. “This is my long time, Pal.”

However, these days the generic name, Pal, is mostly used derogatorily. Take for example you are sitting in the cafeteria and some guy at the table goes on and on about what a stupid neck-tie you’re wearing. Then he asked you, could you please pass the salt? You will likely answer with, “Get it yourself, Pal.” Or when someone cuts you off during your commute, you wave your hand upwards and say, “Thanks a lot, Pal!” (That is going out on a limb that you are not swearing and throwing pennies at them but I think you get what I’m saying.)

Once I had someone call me “Tebby” instead of Terry. It was written in a birthday card. I looked at it again and again to see if I didn’t read it right. Was it possible that they mis-wrote the two “r’s” for two “b’s”? Was I just mis-reading it? No mistake – it was Tebby. The worst part of it, it was my grandmother! I know, I know I have issues – but I’m working through them.

Maybe she didn’t like that we called her “Gimmie”. That wasn’t my fault. That name was made up by my older brother, Tim when he could barely talk. Gimmie. (Now we know what he saw in his grandmother. GIMMIE!… Gimmie something!)

If Gimmie didn’t like her generic name, she didn’t take it out on the precious “first child”. Oh No. She is sitting there one day addressing a birthday card and says to herself. “What is that third boy’s name? Te…? I know it has two letters in it... Tebby! Yes, that must be it, Tebby.”

I stupidly confided this little known fact to one of my friends. To this day most of his notes to me are addressed to, Tebby, or sometimes even Tebbs.

The only thing I have to say to Gimmie is, “Thanks a lot, Pal.”

Someone Else's Fault

This is the last story that involves me and some sort of ailment for a long time. I promise. I don’t look at myself as “sickly” but this has been an abnormally bad year, so far. This month, I found myself with the good old fashioned flu.

Whenever I get sick, my first reaction is that it must be my allergies. Since I believe that I hardly ever do get sick, it must be something out of my control. This time, it could not be denied, the congestion, the body aches, lack of appetite, etc., I was sick.

If I can’t convince myself that I am sick from just having a bad allergy attack, I have to ask myself, “Then whose fault was it?”

I mean really. I work in an office that includes me and the dog so I rarely have contact with sick people. I even make the UPS guy drop my boxes on the porch. Even after I touch the possible carrier of germs, (the box, not the UPS guy) I go lather up with Purell!

I wash my hands all day long. I wash when I go out I wash when I come in. I use Purell when go into a store or restaurant and when I come out. In fact, I think I am going to go wash my hands right now…ahh...that’s better.

Suspect Number One

So whose fault is it, since it can’t be mine? After careful consideration I submit to you my number one suspect; my wife Mary. Mary works in an office full of people, people under pressure. People that have so much to do, they have to work…even when they are sick. So they go to work sick, transfer their germs to Mary and she comes home to give them to “Mr. Sterile” (don’t read in to that, I only mean “sterile” from the germ aspect).

Those germs jump on me like losing gamblers jump on the ninety-nine cent buffet in Reno. It’s Chow Time!

Those of you who know my lovely wife would say – “No, never, not sweet Mary” but yes, I am afraid it’s true. Because, if it’s not her – then it’s got to be her family.

Her Mom, aunt and sister come over regularly for dinner and other assorted meals. They were just here for Easter Bunch a week or two ago, possibly bring me the latest trend in germs. You tell me if I’m off base.

Suspect Number Two

Mary’s sister works full time at a school, and get this, as the school “attendance” person. Kids who are sick are sent to her office to wait there for parents to pick them up. It’s here that these children sneeze across the room, cough without covering their mouth, and routinely vomit in the trash can. This happens every day! Every day I sit down in my kitchen to eat my lunch, across town, in my sister-in-laws office, some kid is losing theirs. I don’t know how often she is sick, but she could be like the monkey in “Outbreak” and just be the germ host. Just waiting to deliver them bacteri to some unsuspecting nice guy.

Suspect Number Three

Poppycock, you say? You don’t think she’s guilty of bringing nasty germs to my house? How about her daughter? Sophia, who is four years old and she goes to pre-school! Does that ring the bell of guilt? Pre-School, the place where parents who can’t miss work, (maybe they work with Mary), so pre-school is the place where these people leave their sick kids! Pre-schools are a microorganism’s summer vacation. There are more germs whirlpooling around those kids in a pre-school than are ever found at the local hospital. A pre-school is truly virus metropolis. Not only are there sick kids coughing on each other but there’s no Purell! Sophia mingles with the offenders and just like her mother, she plays host to every influenza microbe on the planet. "Let's go to Uncle Terry's house."

Suspect Number Four

Not little Sophia, you say? Lets take a look at Mary’s aunt Billie. Aunt Billie works at a library! Think of the germs that live in library. A nice, warm place to propagate those little viruses. Think about it. Those books go out to millions of people. Those people sit at home nursing a bad cold and what do they do? They curl up with a nice book from the LIBRARY! How many times have you seen someone stop their cough by holding a book in front of them? Books are also used to stop sneezes and other unsightly projections from the offending sick person. This happens all the time. And what do they care, it’s not their book; they’ll just bring it back to the library!

So there you have it, four people that are more responsible for me being sick, than me.

As a final note, I wanted to tell you a cautionary tale about how not to treat a head cold.

The other day in a somewhat desperate attempt to get well faster, my aching head was congested and I thought about the value of steam in the shower. I thought that steam in a shower would help relieve my head cold symptoms and put me on the road to recovery. As I was taking a hot shower, I surmised that I needed something more. I stepped out of the shower and grabbed a bottle of eucalyptus oil we had on a shelf. The directions said: “use liberally”. That’s it, just use liberally. So I did. I slathered it on my chest, arms – under my nose – thinking I would breathe in the hot steaming scent of rejuvenating eucalyptus. It worked sort of, but I think the bottle was somewhat old and much of the pungent scent had left long ago. What was left, however, was the oil. You may not know this, but if you but oil on your body while in a wet shower and it should happen to get on your feet – you could be in some serious trouble.

I began to glide without really trying. Sliding like I was on a conveyer belt, backwards as I stood still in the shower. It was kind of fun at first, thinking I was Michael Jackson doing the moon walk when it hit me. I thought about the glass doors and how they would shatter, should my feet would come out from under me at any moment. This was a little scary. I thought about quick movements and what a bad idea they would be.

I slowly, very slowly, turned to face the shower door, I was still constantly moving back and forth in the shower. When I glided end of the enclosure, I ever so easily I slid open the door. When I came back to that end of the shower again, I grabbed the door crossbar over head, (that I now know can hold my weight) and lifted myself safely onto the carpet.

It took longer than usual to dry off, what with all the oil everywhere, but I learned a valuable lesson. Bath Oil is named that way for a reason.

Ankles

Maybe it’s bad luck. Maybe it’s age. As I near the “big five-oh”, I found myself in the doctor’s office, once again. January was Shingles; February was my foot injury (when I was chased down like an escaped prisoner by that kid and his Pug) For March I decided to keep with the foot problems and injured my other foot; but I didn’t even know it.

As I was golfing one afternoon a couple of weeks ago, I noticed that I started to limp. This was strange since I didn’t notice the pain first, I just started limping first. This was so gradual, but by the end of the round I was looking like Grandpa McCoy from old time television. It could have been the floppy hat or the piece of straw I was chewing on – but the limp made me look just like the real McCoy. At the time, I was kind of playing golf like him, too.

I figured I must have stepped on something wrong or mildly twisted my ankle. The next day I got up and it was much sorer. I stretched it out, used a little ice and could walk once again, after work I went down to the nursery and picked up some needed garden supplies. Dragging potting soil and mulch around made my hobble become more severe as the day wore on. The next day it kind of hurt when I got up, so little more stretching and ice - I could move it yet again. Late that afternoon was spent organizing year-end files under the house, hauling boxes in an out. Friday, when I woke up, I couldn’t put any weight on my foot.

Ice and stretching didn’t work this time, I was stuck. I didn’t want to call Mary home from work to take me to the doctor’s office. She told me to go the day before when I could walk and I just knew I would have heard the dreaded “I told you so”.

So I army-crawled into the living room and found a thick dowel I had left over from a recent closet remodel. I pulled myself upright and proceeded to make my way around the house. Getting in and out of the shower was quite eventful as I had to do a pull up on the shower door railing to get in and out, wondering the whole time if it could support my weight. Every time I went anywhere in the house, Tucker thought I was playing some new game and tried to bite the end of the make shift cane. It’s hard enough to hop on one foot using a stick instead of crutch but when you attach a Beagle at the end of it – that makes it much more challenging.

Hours later I had made it to the doctor’s office on little baby steps and a hop while I leaned on the dowel for support. It literally took me about half hour to go fifty yards up that street. The doctor told me that I had Achilles Tendentious. It sounds like a condition but it was essentially an injury I incurred on the golf course and it worsened by working in the yard and going up and down stairs under the house.

Mary was none too happy about leaving work early that Friday afternoon to pick up crutches for me, but when I told her about me shambling up the street to the doctor’s office with my chewed up stick, I think, just for a moment, she felt sorry for me.

The Injury, the Kid and the Pug

Yesterday, while walking Tucker at a nearby park, I was marveling at how nice it was to be walking the trails without anyone else around. The weather was cold, gloomy and almost ready to rain but Tucker and I had planned for it. I was wearing about seventeen layers of clothing and Tucker was wearing his dog collar.

As we came around this turn, we could see up ahead was a women, her six year old boy and they were both holding the leash of their little Pug dog. This was about mile three of my five mile hike. Our trek took us over some steep hills and trails but now were on the paved road in the park, about two miles from home.

We came up from behind and Tucker was just giddy to finally see another dog. We exchanged pleasantries but since I don’t speak much Spanish we didn’t have much to talk about. The mutual butt sniffing ensued (between the dogs) and the Pug really didn’t want have anything to do with Tucker so we were on our way.

Tucker and I got about twenty feet away when we heard the tip-tap of little feet behind us. We stopped and turned and there was the six year old trotting after us. He came up to us to let his Pug get another whiff. The Pug was starting to wheeze just slightly and he only wanted to rest, let alone nuzzle his nose up to Tuckers behind.

I might have said “Done De Gracias” or something equally as lame that was pulled from my memory of my Spanish class in high school. I saw this as a waste of time so I smiled and we were back on pace. The kid just smiled.

About twenty feet away I heard it again. Tip-tap, tip-tap tip-tap. That kid was trying to catch up to us again. Thinking that I might have said – “Please chase us down” in Spanish – so we stopped once more. The Pug was wheezing, the kid was smiling, and Tucker was looking at me like “Why’d we stop again if the dog doesn’t want to play”.

We turned and picked up the pace just a bit to put some distance between us and kid and the Pug. By this time the mother was about 50 yards back – saying nothing, doing nothing.

Tip-tap, wheeze, tip-tap tip-tap. The kid was on the hunt once more. I had had it. This time, there would be no more stopping. I started to really pickup my steps this time. We were going to dust this kid and his little heavy breathing Pug. We got about 150 yards ahead and I started thinking we lost them, so we slowed down a bit. After all, I don’t like to go that fast normally. I had on so many layers of clothing I looked like the Michelin Man so I started sweating like a goat!

Tip-tap, wheeze, tip-tap wheeze, tip-tap, wheeze . What is with this kid? We had to really get moving and this time we were almost running. Tucker loved it but my feet didn’t. My hiking boots were not made for running and my feet were really beginning to ache. Tip-tap, wheeze, tip-tap wheeze, tip-tap, wheeze . Why did I have the miniature Terminator behind me? I looked back and the mom was nowhere to be seen – but there was the kid, pick’em up and putt’em down, dragging his drooling dog behind him – closing on me!

I am just about running from this kid thinking he’s got to tire out pretty soon doesn’t he? Wouldn’t the mom finally tell him to stop chasing that old guy?

Tip-tap, wheeze, tip-tap wheeze, tip-tap, wheeze. I could not believe what I was seeing. My feet were burning like they were on fire, so I looked down at my GPS and I had been chased by this kid and his dog for almost a half a mile. A half a mile! Little Stevey Prefontane dragging his Pug to chase down this limping old sweaty dude with a Beagle! I thought I was in the middle of a Stephen King Novel.

Finally, I put enough distance between me and the little nightmare where I could walk normally – but now my feet were killing me. I got home and removed my boots to find a HUGE blister on the bottom of my foot. I am now limping around the house and hoping this doesn’t keep me from golfing on Saturday. All because of some kid and his Pug.

Betty’s Funeral Services

Today I decided I would take a trip down to Hayward to attend Betty’s Funeral Services. Since she was such a close family friend, I’m sure Mom would have wanted us to attend – as long as it wouldn’t be a bother.

The service was held at Holy Angles Funeral and Cremation Center. “Cremation Center” kind of sounds like the K-Mart of funeral homes – I half expected to see a quick check area but sadly it was familiar. I had been there before – one too many times in fact – it was the re-named Marchado Mortuary – where we dealt with arrangements for Mom, Dad and Mary’s Dad.

I think I knew Betty pretty well. Growing up, she would be the “stand in” mom when Mom and Dad were busy donating their time to the church or at the hospital having another sibling. Betty was always around. She kind of scared us though, as kids. I still remember the day she caught us playing with fire in the backyard. I remember the glare she gave us and I knew immediately we were in trouble. I also knew at once, that I had to blame the fire play on Ron, since he was older and should have known better.

So there I was standing at the back of a relatively small viewing room looking for an appropriate seat. (An appropriate seat would be, of course, anywhere that no one would sit next to me.) I sat down in an empty pew and scooted to end, a place where I could be by myself and alone with my thoughts.

Not more than ten seconds later a couple came in and came across the pew and pushed up right next to me. Other than us, the pew remained empty the rest of the service. Fifteen feet of pew and three people huddled together at one end like we were trying to stay warm.

The service began with a bit of a surprise. The officiator was Deacon Nels, from All Saints Church. I never realized that Betty knew Nels. Deacon Nels was also known as Nels Gonsalvas who used to be the youth leader at All Saints Church while I was in early high school. Phil and I would attend teen events where Nels was the guy in charge. I remembered him as someone we didn’t really like, somewhat condescending to us and there was always something odd about him. Phil and I stopped going to the youth events either because we got older – or we didn’t want to spend any more time with Nels than we had to.

The last time I had heard about Nels was when Phil was working vice in downtown Hayward. Phil had to arrest Nels for “solicitation for homosexual sex act”. Quite a story in itself – you ought to here Phil tell it someday. But here we were, so many years later, Nels was standing in front of us getting ready to tell me, my two snuggle buddies and thirty other people about Betty.

There he is standing there with the same hair, and the same mustache, though it was all white hair now, beginning the service like this.

“We are gathered here today to pay respects to….her. She meant a lot to all of us here and we will all miss…er…her for it.”

He then looks at his card and says, “Elisabeth. …err Betty will be missed by all.” Over his shoulder you can see many flowers that have banners that say things like, “Betty we will miss you. To Betty...etc. If Nels would have just looked back to get a clue as to “who” he was doing the service for – he wouldn’t have looked like such a dufus.

Like many Catholic based funeral services there is a large portion of time spent with attendees standing up and speaking about the deceased. This service was no different. First the wife of one of the two sons got up and spoke and then other son’s wife got up. Both were very heartfelt, tearful accounts of how Betty affected their lives. These two were followed by person after person getting up and crying through their talk. I’m telling you, there were a lot of tears.

Then we came to Rob. Rob was the son of Robert, one of Betty’s boys. Rob was about 25, decently dressed with short cropped hair. It was one of those haircuts where it was almost shaved around the neck and halfway up the back of the head and then as little longer up to the top of the head where the black hair has grown in. On the back of his next was a tattoo of a woman’s name, (not Betty) and up a little higher starting to be covered by growing hair was a much larger tattoo that covered the entire back of the head with an old English text that I couldn’t read. I tell you what it said but somehow it shouted; “I’ve been to prison!”

I know what the back of his head looked like so well because I was sitting behind him the whole time, wishing he would share his entire pew, that he had to himself, with the two people that were sitting on top of me.

So Rob gets up to give a tearful farewell to Betty. Through his many breakdowns and tears he tells this story:

“Last, (sniffle, sniffle) December, my girlfriend and I were in Hayward and stopped to see Betty, my grandmother. She was so nice to me, we stayed for dinner and when we left, she gave me $40. Betty had told him not to tell my dad (Robert) because he would get mad. I wish I had the $40 to give back to her, but I don’t have the $40 anymore.”

About this time I was getting a little uncomfortable. Not only from listening to this guy who probably mooched off of Betty every chance he got, when he was not in jail, but because of the “Shingles” rash that is reaching across my back. My right shoulder feels for the most part, a dull ache and occasionally you add to that an intense itch from the rash. It’s hard to get a good position to sit in.

As I’m sitting there shifting from side to side in attempt to feel better, this kid behind me starts bonking his head into my shoulder. Ouch! I give “the look” back to the parents who are mostly clueless and the kid finally stops.

Rob continues:

“I know I’ve made some, mistakes in my life…”

With that, this darn kid starts marching tiny, toy dinosaurs across the top of the pew and over my aching shoulder. I finally try giving the “mean” stare at the kid and he just stares back – the kid won the stare off.

Rob is really spilling out his life to us now. I thought he was going to tell us all where the bodies were buried.

“When I heard Betty died, I just had to see her one more time. So I went to her house. I had nowhere to go. I had a T.V. dinner in her living room because I missed her so much.”

The dad, Robert, is staring straight ahead not making eye contact with his crying son. He obviously had heard this song before and it was turning into an uncomfortable spectacle.

Rob’s voice is now rising slightly.

“When they found me in her house, I didn’t steal anything. I just had a T.V. dinner. I didn’t steal anything.” And he looked tearfully at his dad who did not even look at him.

Rob comes back to his seat. I too, didn’t want to look him in the eye, moved to the edge of the pew to lean on my arms and look to the floor, amazed at what I just heard.

As I’m resting on my knees looking at the floor – and that damn kid with the dinosaurs crawls under the pew from behind and comes up looking at me, between my legs!

It was time for me to go.