Comic Mom

Thursday, January 26th, 2012 6:44 am When I was a little girl, I used to go to funerals. All the time, it seemed like. I remember going to some churches just for the funeral. I'd never normally go to that church. Sometime during therapy, I began to think the funeral stuff was all very weird. I began to hate that I'd had that kind of childhood, the kind of childhood where I had to sit through funerals. And yet, we've gone to no fewer than two funerals this week. The first, on Sunday, was for the wonderful man who taught me driver's education. He was 82 when he died. Then, today, we went to a funeral for W.'s mom, who was 90. We had just seen W. a few days ago at the Speedy Chef. She thinks a lot of the boys and I am thankful that we went to the funeral. Her mom sounded like a wonderful woman; after hearing so much about W's mother, it is evident where W. gets her fabulous personality. I think the last time I had been to the funeral home where her service was held, I was there for BtL's daddy's viewing. I remember that I was supposed to be in Spoon River Anthology for my English class that evening. It hurt to miss being in a play, but being with BtL and his family when his daddy died was more important to me. I made the right decision, even though I was just 17. After the funeral on Sunday, I thought I saw P.G. Most of us in this corner of northwestern North Carolina know P.G.; he is especially well-known by the church crowd. He knows everything about churches in this area. Everything. And he walks or hitches a ride most everywhere. I wouldn't dare pick up a hitchhiker, but P.G. is fairly harmless. I knew that Beauford Shore would have offered P.G. a ride and so, I did as well. I took him all the way from one county seat to another. On the way, the boys listened intently to him. He and I talked about Wade Chappell, who used to be the preacher at Island Ford and also on the radio; and Preacher K., the preacher at the church where I grew up; and Beauford Shore and almost everything in between. When we went by WalMart, P.G. proclaimed that they "sell beer and wine." Yikes! I'd forgotten that Baptists tend not to like that sort of thing. I think a lot of Baptists have forgotten that we are not supposed to like either one of those. And so, by the time we got to the second county seat, P.G. and I had had quite a discussion. The boys were listening intently. We were all learning stuff. P.G. was planning to go to a baptizing Sunday night and he wanted the boys and me to drop him off at the church. When we got to the church, P.G. got out and I got out, too, hoping to take a picture of him with the boys, which I did. Then, P.G. and I hugged. He'd hugged me at the church as well and you gotta remember that this guy is 87 years old. 87. And so, it's not as though I was superduper worried about him or anything. But here's the deal: P.G. started trying to kiss me. Crazy, I know, but he did. On the cheek. Well, I made sure it was on the cheek. I had to turn my head fully away one point so that if he kissed anything, it would be pretty close to the back of my head; he would get a mouthful of hair. I really think that if my mouth had been there instead of my hair, I'd have been French kissing him. That was not at all in my plans. I have no idea what was in his plans. I have stopped trying to figure out that about other people. I doubt P.G. had any bad intentions here; he's just an 87-year-old guy who has probably not been hugged by lots of women lately. But it was quite an experience. We all got back in the car, leaving P.G. to wait for the service to start. We came back to VV and I built a fire in the fireplace. So, funerals: You just never know what will happen as a result of them.