Biking with Pat, or "The Goddess is My Co-Pilot"

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One of best days ever for biking along the Bay, given the temperature, the views of the city, the absence of wind. Some knee pain, but -- as Pat promised -- that subsided.

Good luck or good design? Perhaps indicating I'm still not hitting on all eight, I put my bike on the bike carrier and forgot to strap it down. I notice this on the express way at 70 looking in the rear view mirror.

The bike did not bounce off! Well, one side of it did, but because of the rake of support bars, it bounced toward the back of the car and was still held up by those support bars.

I like to think that on Amazon Island, Mom took The Goddess aside and whispered: "My son-in-law needs a little help. Please?"

Winding Down

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The funeral is at 2 p.m. After that, it all goes to the lawyers, who will make a thin meal of it except on us.

There's no money left. But that doesn't mean there won't be a fight over a china plate, a corner cabinet, a mug shaped like a burgher's head.

E. has the advantage of not wanting anything except some of the stuff we gave Mom, though personally I've always had my eye on that burgher's head.

The Haircut. The Visitation.

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Got a nine dollar haircut and some advice besides from J. the stylist, who tells everyone -- me, the salon cat, his parents -- that funerals weird him out so he will never ever go to any. His parents understand, he says. I think they have spent their lives understanding.

And now to the visitation, 5p for family, 6-8p for hoi polloi. This will be a moment. We have not seen mom's body. If tears heal, let's drag in the lepers and the hard of heart because I think I know what's to come. If not now, when? J. the stylist said one of the things he does not like about funerals is what he considers how many of the tears sad are false, or at least irrelevant, since (and I'm paraphrasing here):

What’s Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba,
That he should weep for her?

Perhaps, that's true. But give true tears credit, and false tears, too, for I think some don't weep in the moment, but store their sorrow up for later on. It's natural as flowers in spring. Just wait.

And let us remember the rest of Hamlet's thought.

Had he the motive and the cue for passion
That I have? He would drown the stage with tears
And cleave the general ear with horrid speech;
Make mad the guilty and appal the free,
Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed
The very faculties of eyes and ears.

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We Are Working on Eulogies Today

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I have two minutes. I do my best:

Henrietta Matilda Landrith was born in Frankenmuth, Michigan in 1911. She died in Winter Haven, Florida, in 2009. She spoke only German until she was eight years old. Once she learned English, she made up for lost time.

She was a missionary for eight years, and paraphrasing the poet, we think that she might say, “Open my chest and you will find carved into my heart a single word, and that word is Africa.”

She was the wife of Loren Joseph Landrith for 51 years. At my father’s funeral, my mother asked me if I thought there will be sex in heaven. That is a profound question, and one I would not attempt to answer. But I can say this. Today once more my mother-in-law will lie beside her husband.

Henrietta Landrith is survived by daughters Mary Iaquinta of Venice; Edith Landrith-Robertson of Oakland, California; Esther Hardesty of Winter Haven; Lois Landrith of Weaverville, North Carolina; sons-in-law Sam Iaquinta and Michael Robertson; granddaughters Deborah Iaquinta of Weymouth, Massachusetts, Michelle Iaquinta of Austin, Texas, and Shirah Hartfield of Plano, Texas; great grandsons Elijah, Isaiah and Noah Hartfield. And her name is carved into all their hearts, as it is into those of so many in this room.

So Far So Good IV

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A very good day in that E. seems to be navigating a straight path between her two sisters Scylla and Charybdis and, in fact, is handling things very well. However, I'm starting to get a little frayed, though it may simply be the result of someone doing a little hit-and-run on the front fender of the rented car. But this is the first time I've had a rental dinged in 40 years, so it was undoubtedly due.

Otherwise, it's just wear and tear. Let me use a baseball metaphor. I'm the catcher -- the hitless wonder -- who has come in to catch the knuckle-baller. There are a lot of bad hops, but I'm getting my body in front of them and taking them off the torso, the arms, the mask. I believe I am developing a case of cumulative woe.

And it's too hot, and I'm not sleeping, and I'm trying to keep up with email, but I'm going to come back home 10 days behind in grading. Also, I have no idea it will take to sell this damn house -- which we will need to do because of the reverse mortgage we got in Mom's name -- and we'll have to pay all the incidentals to maintain the house, and that includes paying a sister to stay in it. We could rent, of course, but wouldn't it be quicker just to blow it up ourselves?

A slow day in a hot and humid place.

Mom and I Give a Little Mouth-to-Mouth to a Dying Industry

Click it big. Click it big.

So Far So Good II

Cover of Soylent Green

This afternoon we went to the funeral home, a trip that filled me with dread because. even though Mom had pre-paid for her funeral, that was 20 years ago, which meant the funeral industry scum had 20 years to lose the paperwork, change the rules, begin operation under new management -- Soylent Green, Ltd. I believe the new group is.

To my dismay -- the dismay of having to improve one's notion of the fundamental decency of one's fellow human being -- when we told the funeral people that You know what? We've lost every scrap of record of Mom's prepaying, they poked around for a couple minutes and reappeared with a photocopy of the original agreement. The funeral director explained several times that mom had bought a $8,500 funeral for $3,700. I didn't mind. It's okay to preen occasionally.

We were so thrilled that we were not being ripped off that I bought several gaudy nonessentials -- yes, Mom will now have an eternal website of pictures and tributes and so on of which I shall be *webmaster* -- because, damn, if I don't go thousands of dollars out of pocket during the next few days.... Well, what's the point of having in-laws?

Though this is my last one. I thought Mom's advanced age -- actually only 98 years, five months -- had steeled me against any emotion other than relief that her suffering, which was wonderfully brief, is over. And I felt quite a lot of anticipation that E. and I will be at home for Christmas for the first time in five years and will be able to spend all of December together for the first time in five years. The relief came washing over me, you might say, before there was pain to wash away.

But at the funeral home today one of our tasks was picking out a bit of poetry for the cards that will be handed out at the service. They had several pages of samples, and I choose a handsome sentiment by Emerson -- though the funeral home spelled it Emmerson, which error I graciously pointed out. And then, just because my Ph.D. is in English Lit, with a specialty in 19th Century British, I read a poem by Tennyson because I thought E. and Esther would like it and I like doggerel because doggerel reads well.

I read the first two lines of the poem, and then I began to weep, pretty damn loud, real weep-track quality if there is such a thing. And for what? Only cliche can come after that question, but if cliche happens to be the truth, well, you can't just go around making shit up to be all cool and Steven Sondheim.

And for what -- as I was saying -- did I weep? For my mother-in-law who gave me my wife (thank you); who said she loved me in spite of the fact I was not handy around the house when I came to visit, though I tried; who was so fierce in her joy and her sorrow and who laughed madly in her gladness, laughed as her daughter laughs, loud enough to embarrass you to be honest, if it happened in public.

Actually, Mom cackled, and it was nice finally to be able to say, So that's what that word means.

And I cried, mind you, over Tennyson. But that's a good thing because it shows the tears were genuine, all mine and none of the poet.


Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.

I concede: Isn't it pretty to think so?

So Far So Good I

Just listened in on a call between E. and Esther and Mom's minister. This is sad, but my reaction to preachers is usually: And just how full of crap are you? But this guy is good. That is, he has obviously done lots of funerals and lots of grief counseling, and he knows how to ease the hearts of those in emotional need.

Two problems:

* Mom laid out exactly what she wanted done at her funeral -- hymns, etc. There were apparently multiple copies of her preferences, but no one can find any of them. The preacher was very good at reassuring "the girls" that whatever they decided would honor Mom and make her happy.

* What to do about pallbearers! E. still remembers her dad's funeral 20 years ago when the family members -- cousins and nephews -- who were chosen to bear the casket were so old and feeble they almost dropped him. I (I overheard) am considered pretty old and feeble, and I may be the best of the eligibles. But the preacher said he could find church members to cover as needed. (I am tempted to say something about muscular Christianity.)

By the way, as I tell E., all this family nonsense of the moment -- nonsense I will leave richly vague; just let me say there are other sisters -- all of it just doesn't matter. The job has been done. The job was done brilliantly. The job was taking care of mom during her last difficult six years -- oh, the cash flow, and now all the money gone and no God in heaven to give us credit for it -- and now the job is over.

We have been good and faithful servants. Cool.

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Morphine Says It All

They've put mom on morphine. We know what that means. E. is on the plane tomorrow morning. They haven't said this is it. But I think this is it.

Health & Wealth

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As I wrote earlier in the week, our niece slashed the Gordian knot when she advised her mom, who is caregiver for E.'s mom, that if E.'s mom is in terrible pain and the nursing home staff shrugs and says those suffering from dementia (which mom isn't) groan as if in pain.

But we are wise and know they aren't.

Our niece's advice was elegant in its simplicity. Ask nursing home staff to call 911 and do it yourself if they won't. So Esther did. When mom got to the hospital, the admitting doctor looked at her and about six seconds later said: "Dehydration. Massive infection."

They are treating. No prognosis yet. A family friend called E. this morning and reassured her that the friend has asked the nurses to let her know if they think mom's death is imminent, so the other daughters can be summoned. Aforementioned family friend thinks Esther, the caregiver, will be in denial to the end.

Finally, mom seems to be getting proper treatment, and that made me think about the very rich like Howard Hughes and Michael Jackson who are able to afford not just the very best treatment but also the very worst from quacks and charlatans who will play to their patients' psychological weaknesses. Jacko hired his own death panel, and he got what he paid for.

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Life in the Old Lane

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First, the good news. I own half of a house in Florida. The bad news is actually NOT, not in the operant sense of the word, as in, "Take the money and run."

Because California is a community property state, I have recently discovered that it turns out that I am, indeed, half owner of my mother-in-law's home in Winter Haven, which she signed over to my wife nearly 20 years ago, retaining a "life interest," which allows her to stay in the home as long as she is able.

Now almost 98, my mother-in-law has proved surprisingly "able," and until Monday was still in her home, my wife's sister Esther serving as caregiver for some years now, and when the roll is called up yonder *she* will be there.

If there is, indeed, a "yonder" and Justice minding the door.

But Monday my mother-in-law went into the hospital -- again, but this time at least one of her doctors says it's time she went into a home, adding, "She won't be coming back."

There is not a good moment for this sort of thing, but this week is a particularly bad moment because we are on the verge of signing up for a reverse mortgage because my mother-in-law has managed to outlive her money. Her only remaining asset is her home, which isn't actually hers but is sort of hers.

(It's half mine! Sort of.)

My wife and I can, in fact, get a reverse mortgage on the house, the terms of which are tied to my mother-in-law's health. If she dies (obviously) or if she permanently moves out of the house, we are committed to selling the house.

This is now a vexed point because the upfront costs on a reverse mortgage are considerable, which is compensated for by the fact you don't have to pay any of them until you sell the house. But if you *immediately* have to sell the house, your effective interest rate is astonishing.

So that's where we are. If mum-in-law goes into a home, we are going to need cash, and we've taken a beating (like everyone else) in the financial meltdown, so we need to find that cash in the Winter Haven property. So, now perhaps an equity loan is the way to go? Or can we even get one???

It's a muddle, and we have 48 hours to try to figure it out. But at least we are receiving looks of admiration. Several folk have displayed various levels of disbelief at the fact we are not chucking the old lady in a home, getting her on Medicare reimbursement as soon as possible, forcing a sale of the house and taking that cruise I've always dreamed of, the one to Alaska in a hundred-passenger cruise ship where you actually get to ride a whale or something.

Well, what are you going to do? I love my wife, and my wife loves her mother.

Hey, baby, what you want for your birthday? I got half a house I'm not using. Nah, go ahead. Take it.