The Dearly Departed

Once a month or so, a group of us who used to be involved with Christ Church get together for lunch and to reminisce about “the good old days”.  Sometimes we meet for a pot luck at a member’s home, or brown bag at a park, and other times we go to a restaurant. Today we met at an ice cream parlor/lunch room in rural Harford County called Broom’s Bloom.  They have quiche, sandwiches, soups, and the world’s best ice cream.

I had a combo called The Dairymaid’s Delight – a cup of roasted red pepper bisque so thick it actually mounded over the cup, fresh cheddar and strawberries, a slab of cornbread, and what is called on the menu “a very small ice cream”. Two scoops of caramel cashew.  And, of course, a cup of coffee worthy of my dad – a mug which probably held three regular cups.

Most of the folks there knew my dad (including the waitress), and at least knew my mom either in passing or by reputation.  We talked about my dad’s funeral – he was late for it – and the fact that my mom ended up getting buried in the wrong plot.

Now, this was her own bloody fault, although I honestly think my father had a hand in it.  She had refused to have a marker put on his grave (“God knows where to find him”) and even though the marker was free because he was a veteran, and I knew there was no chance she’d ever visit his grave site,  I never did put one in.  When my mother died, it had been raining for a solid week, and although it was sunny the day of her funeral, when we arrived at the church we discovered it had been too wet for the grave-digger to get into the cemetery, so we had to come back the next day to actually plant the woman.

While we were milling around in the grave yard, it struck me that the flag marking the plot was not in the right place. The church office was closed, so I couldn’t check, but I did call first thing the next morning.  I told the secretary I was pretty sure my dad was buried next to the Trafton family, but would she please double-check.  Well, it turned out he is buried on the left end of the Traftons, and my mom’s flag had been placed on the right end. Jan dashed up the hill to move the flag, but she called me back to say that by the time she got there, the hole had already been dug! I still don’t know how to handle this, but the gang today – after rolling off their chairs with laughter – suggested I just wait until there’s another Trafton burial and move my mom then.

And it gives my father a few more years of peace and quiet.