Life Began at the Funeral Home

I feel as though I am in a Hollywood movie, waiting for the director to yell cut. The scene is set with an abundance of flowers, tender music playing and murmuring extras strategically placed throughout the rooms. The camera zooms in on me, sitting listlessly staring through tear-filled eyes at my father, lying in a casket. I wish it were a movie, but it’s real.
I don’t want to face this. I just want my Dad back, just as I wanted my Mom back eleven years ago in this very room. You’d think at my age I would have this life and death thing down and tending to the sobbing “others” in the room. Nope! I am thinking of no one but me. That is my right as I am the “baby” of the family. I practically raised myself and now, two people I was able to blame everything that went wrong in my life, are gone. Not that my life was Hell or anything, actually it was quite nice most of the time; it’s just that everyone was busy with their lives and I was floundering at home all alone.
Early memories of my life bring to mind an Italian version of a Norman Rockwell painting, where our welcoming house was the place where friends, neighbors and relatives would gravitate.
Until I was eight, we lived in a sweet suburban neighborhood, where kids could safely roam free. My Mother was a stay-at-home mom, always at hand and providing a warm, cozy home. She adored her family, tending to every detail and when this woman wrapped her arms around us, her love went straight to our souls.
My Father was a city policeman and my Superman. To me, he was the bravest, smartest, funniest person in the world. When he was home, I was never more than two feet away from him. I loved following him everywhere he went in the house, whether it was watching him shave or helping him fix something in his workshop. I was sad to see him go to work and screamed with joy when I heard him return.
My older sister and brother were still young enough to enjoy the idea of a baby sister. We all had our own friends, yet we all seemed to mingle with one another. I know I am making my early life seem too good to be true, but this how I remember it, a bit of paradise!
Then the fateful day came when the rug was pulled out from under me and my parents had the brilliant idea to purchase a grocery store and live in an apartment above. They made it sound like the adventure of a lifetime and we would live happily-ever-after. Actually what happened was my Mother worked from morning to night for the next 10 years, my Father dabbled in many side businesses, eventually ventured into politics and became our city’s mayor for eight years. My sister and brother matured and stepped onto the fast track of the teen years. And me? I watched a lot of TV!
Our home/business sat on a main street in a bustling steel city. There was the day and night noise of speeding cars and trucks outside our front window. It was not a place where a kid my age could just walk out the door and play. When I walked out my door, there was a sidewalk, not a yard. It felt as though I were in a prison. No where to go, no one to play with, no one really taking care of me. My paradise seemed far away.
After two years, we moved back to the suburbs and true isolation set in. Living above the store I could go downstairs when I was lonely and see my Mom at work, but at least I had a yard, playground and my favorite place to escape; the woods.
There was a lot of love and laughter in the house on the rare occasions when everyone was together. Holidays were always my favorite time, because the house was filled to the brim with bliss. The voice of Nat King Cole, blaring from our stereo, singing of chestnuts roasting, drifting aromas of Italian tradition being prepared in the kitchen and decorations throughout the house that usually could compete with Vegas. The place screamed joy! I was sure no family was ever as happy as we were at those moments. However, all of that vanished after the holiday. When I would come home from school, open the door, enter the house and all was silent, and once again, I was alone.
I could spend hours talking about the wonderful times we had as a family, it was just the day to day life that was lonely. It was the decisions I had to make on my own, because there was no one to turn to. Let’s just say, most of the decisions I made were good and a couple were just plain bad. I am now only somewhat neurotic, which is phenomenal, considering the circumstances.
So here I sit, back at scene one, among the numerous fans of my Father, wishing I hadn’t stopped smoking years ago, so I could have an excuse to go outside and escape every fifteen minutes. Instead, I have to be in the same room as, “Her”. Who’s, “Her” you ask? You see, my father remarried since my mother’s passing, not once, but twice. I really don’t want to go into all of the gory details, so I’ll skip the first remarriage and move right on to the second. Right now, the second one is standing at his side crying and peeking out of the corner of her eyes, looking for someone to spew her, “poor me” spiel on. She did a number on my family and I do believe in my heart of hearts she is Satan’s protégé in disguise.
I didn’t always feel this way about her. I delighted in the idea that my Dad marry her and I told him so. A day I now wish, perhaps, I would have been in a coma unable to speak my mind. But no, I just wanted my father to be happy and not alone.
She seemed to be a sweet, meek, small town widow, who worshiped the ground my father walked on. Exactly the type my father was searching for. Someone that would devote her life to follow him anywhere he wanted to go; road trips, Kmart, all-you-can-eat joints or just sitting in front of his big screen TV.
For the better part of a year, she did just that. Somewhere in the middle of that year, she wanted to get married. Not just a quickie marriage; the type I imagined and rallied behind when my Father spoke of wanting to get hitched for the third time, but a full out family and friends wedding/reception extravaganza. It was during this period of time when our family noticed, how should I put it…the “other” dimensions of the woman he was marrying. Once they were married, his life faded into her life. He sold most of his possessions and his home, moved into hers and began the slow decay of his wants, needs and eventually his health. The game was over and she had won. She had control of the property, money and him. Monopoly! When he was out of the game, she flipped the board and let everything scatter and left us to clean the mess. One enduring piece of vindication is that most people who know my family eventually saw through her veil of deception and were kind to her merely out of respect for my Dad.
As I pan the room I see faces from my childhood, some I haven’t seen in twenty years or more, relatives that I see usually under similar circumstances and people I’ve never laid eyes on in my life.
I find the strength to stand, thinking I can sneak past the guests, out the door to get some air in my lungs and a chance at a bit of peace for my mind. Oh, for a bit of that childhood loneliness right now, but irony once again comes into play.
I was almost home free. With my hand on the doorknob, an old friend of my father’s placed his hand on my shoulder. He began talking to me about how sorry he was for my loss. So instead of saying, yeah, yeah, like I wanted to and keep walking, I became my parents’ good, respectful daughter and once more smiled and responded out of obligation.
As I turned toward him, I looked in his eyes and noticed how truly sad he seemed. Out of curiosity, I decided to actually listen to what he was saying and it turned out to be the beginnings of a story about the good old days with my father, when they were policemen together. He spoke of a time my father arrested a man for breaking into a grocery store shortly before Christmas and when he discovered the burglar was trying to get food for a Christmas dinner, my Father took a bag of groceries to the man’s family so they would not spend the holiday hungry.
As he was talking, two other men joined the conversation and the next thing I knew, a group of people were forming, laughing, crying and marveling over this man they knew most of their lives. Their friend, my Dad. The stories were incredible.
I always knew my dad was funny, kind, loyal and honest and I witnessed these aspects of his personality throughout my life. But these people were telling stories of his life never knew. I suppose during those years that my dad was scarce to me he was at least doing worthwhile deeds in the world. It then occurred to me that perhaps it’s not the amount of time he spent with me that was important, but the quality of time and all of his wonderful humor, wisdom and knowledge he shared with me.
For the remainder of that day I began to take on a different viewpoint. Instead of looking at all of the mistakes my Father made, I focused on all of the good about him. The coldness around my heart began to melt with the warm glow of compassion I felt for him. I was so proud of him for being such a fine man. I welcomed conversation and craved more knowledge about my Dad and sought out more from all who came through the door. My search did not disappoint. I marveled at the admiration these people had for the same person I used to view as my special hero.
On the day of his funeral there was an article in the newspaper about another story of his life I never knew. I wept as I read it, as I realized how all of my life, I was so busy blaming him for not spending time with me, that I barely took the time to recognize him. I am honored to be his daughter.