As many of you already know, our dad, Ben Roffe, died in May. So this is our very first Father’s Day without him in 3D.
His funeral was a small, private affair on a sunny summer-like afternoon. A beautiful day.
Thanks, Dad. You were always thoughtful.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the cemetery. Here’s how it went down: (Sorry.)
When my phone rang at at 11:50 at night, I knew it could only mean one thing.
And it did.
It was Brentwood Nursing Home telling me that my dad was in extremis.
I called Kenny. He, too, had just been alerted.
“Let’s go,” I said. And ten minutes later we were on our way to Deerfield.
The ride out there was a little surreal. Dark, empty of cars, and we still didn’t know if Dad was alive or dead.
Probably the latter- but we were both prepared for it.
Even still, that news always heralds a tectonic shift in one’s life. We were going to be Dad-less.
And that was going to take some big-time getting used-to.
(But that was all in the future. Right now, it was just important to get there and see what was going on.)
A kind male nurse met us at the nurse’s station and explained that Dad had passed away in his sleep.
Thank you, God.
No suffering. No fear. A king’s death.
Dad and I had discussed it- we talked about everything- and this was what he always said when someone was lucky enough to shuffle off his mortal coil in this fashion.
He got it.
I wanted to see him. Kenny took a pass.
I needed the closure. And I’m glad that I did.
Dead, he still looked better than I did. (No lie. I’m not so hot at one a.m.- and I have more gray hair.)
I didn’t stay long. I returned to the nursing station just in time for the guy to explain to us the Lake County rules of corpse management.
Quincy M.E. Sidebar: When Natasha was a teenager, she had a summer job working for the Illinois State Comptroller, Loleta Didrickson. She assigned Natasha to the agency that oversaw cemeteries and funeral homes. A very important post, btw. We all have been disgusted by scandals in corrupt, venal and mismanaged institutions.
Natasha had to learn all the rules that govern these bodies. (Sorry.) And one day, she casually remarked that she and her fellow interns worked in “The Dead Department.”
Bingo! There was her college essay theme. But that’s another post.
Back to Brentwood…
So this guy now tells Kenny and me that there is a four hour window to transfer what used to be Ben but will now be referred to as the deceased to a mortuary.
And then he asked us the name of our funeral home.
Huh?
Funeral home? Uh, we didn’t have a favorite.
And Yelp, my go-to app, somehow didn’t seem appropriate in this case.
Kenny and I stared at each other. And then he remembered that he had been to a funeral conducted by a cousin of his wife. And that he liked the way the cousin had overseen things.
But he couldn’t, for the life of him, (sorry) remember the name of the mortuary.
My iPhone to the rescue. I googled the name of the dearly departed and found the obituary. In it was the name of the funeral home.
And a photo.
“Is this it?” I asked Kenny holding the phone up to his face.
“Yeah, that’s the place,” he confirmed.
So we gave the nurse the pertinent contact info and left Brentwood- and Dad.
And we felt pretty okay about it. We knew that our father would be treated with respect and consideration by Mary Lu’s cousin.
The next morning Kenny called me.
And he was laughing.
“Oops,” he said. “We made a mistake. We lost Dad.”
“What do you mean ‘we lost Dad?’ What happened? ” I asked. I wanted to know what was so funny.
“We sent Dad to the wrong place,” he said.
“How could we do that? Where is he?” I was confused.
“I called the funeral home this morning to make the arrangements. This guy, Irwin, answered the phone, and I told him that I wanted Amy to do the service. But he told me that she worked for another funeral home.”
“How is that possible?” I asked. “I showed you the picture of the joint and you said that was the place you had been.”
“Yeah, I asked Irwin the same thing. But he told me that they share facilities with another firm and she works for the other funeral director.”
“So then I asked him what I should do. And you know what he said? He said ‘I don’t know what you want to do, but I’ve got Dad.'”
So I said, “Well, you’ve got him! You keep him! What was I going to do? Have Dad drop-shipped to some other place?”
“No, you did the right thing,” I agreed. Now I was laughing.
“By the way,” Kenny continued. “I picked out the casket on-line. It was the model named ‘The Benjamin.”
“Good call, ” I concurred. “The logical choice.”
“Yep, Irwin said that in twenty-five years of doing funerals, this was the easiest funeral he had ever planned. And I said, ‘That’s our dad. Easy-peasy.'”
Now some of you may be thinking, “Really, Ellen? Too soon.”
I just want you to know that my dad would have been the FIRST one to laugh at his MIA snafu. He had a fabulous sense of humor.
He was the one who turned me on to The Marx Brothers, Sid Caesar, Terry-Thomas, Peter Sellers, Buddy Hackett, Rodney Dangerfield, Jack Benny, Steve Allen, Louis Nye, Ernie Kovacs…the list of great comedians he admired was endless.
And he never ever lost his own sense of the absurd. Whenever I saw him in his last days, I’d bounce in and say, “Hi, Dad. What’s new?”
It invariably got a laugh.
He’d look around at his surroundings- and circumstances- and say with a Jackie Mason inflection,”What could be new?”
It always made me smile.
So if you have ever laughed at anything that I’ve ever written, you can thank him.
Happy Father’s Day, everybody.
May today be filled with laughter.
And love.
Easy-peasy.
Ellen, I couldn’t help notice that you tagged this post as “pop culture.” What a wonderful way to remember your Dad! I admire how you were able to take what was surely a stressful and traumatic episode for you and your brother, and mine it for comedy.
Thanks, Doc. Eagle-eyed of you to notice this. And I don’t mine my life. I frack it.
And as luck would have it, you ended up with Irwin Goldman, the most sensible and understanding mortician in the Chicago area. He knows easy-peasy and at the right price.
You’re so right, Bob. Luck was with us the whole way. He did a GREAT job- with humor and just the right touch of dignity, too. My son Nick was so impressed that he signed Irwin up to dispose of me.
Ellen…..you always know how to deal with any topic with wit, humor and tenderness…(sometimes!) your Dad would have enjoyed this more than anyone!
Thanks you, doll. And oh, that picture on FB! Wish Jimmy a great day for me. Love to all.
Happy Heavenly Father’s Day to your wonderful Dad!
He was terrific and of course, he would love today’s post!!
We’re going out to visit. We’re bringing hot sauce. And I’ll send him your regards. He’d love that you thought of him. I love YOU.
Ellen, when I saw the title I immediately thought of the movie “Where’s Papa?” I bet your Dad loved that movie. Ruth Gordon saying “I know that tush anywhere” still makes me laugh. Love this post.
He did, Mitch! Who didn’t? Thanks, pal. Happy FD
Nice touch for the day. Reminds me of my mother’s passing last year. The caretaker called and said she’d died (she was in home hospice care). I went in to see her that last time and said two things: “It’s been charming,” her trademark phrase, and “When you see dad, tell him everything turned out o.k.”
Thanks, Fred. And right back at ya’. I loved your message to your father via your mom. Happy Father’s Day, fellow New Trier alum.
Reading your ‘Letters from Elba’ , has , I noticed , become a Sunday morning wake up ritual (if I can find my glasses), not unlike the NYT. A lovely Father’s Day story. I’m lucky that my Father is still alive and well, but I miss both my step father vey much and I especially feel my wife’s loss of her Father- who sounds like the Italian version of your Father. I was very lucky to share our very own “Dean Martin” who died way too young in his mid 70’s. At least I had 25 years with him.
A lovely Father’s Day to you. And when was the last time you were compared to the NYT?? Scott H.
Thank you so much, Scott. I told your sister to please wish the dashing Ivan a happy FD from yours truly. And as to that great comparison…modesty forbids me from answering. But it never gets old! (And it was on my Memorial Day post, actually. So who’s modest?!)
Wishing you and your entire clan the happiest of days.
It is funny to read the recap. He definitely would have laughed. He was so easy going and I’m so wired like him it’s scary 🙂
But NO gray hair at all. That SUCKS!
Actually there are 3!!
You really know how to hurt a guy.
Concerning Mitchell’s remark, that was a real funny line. But the line I remember most from this Carl Reiner classic was when Gordon brought his new girlfriend home to meet his mother. When sitting at the dining table, Gordon’s mother holds up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart and says to his new girlfriend, “that’s my son Gordon. He’s got a pecker this big.” A true American Jewish classic with lots of memorable lines especially the last or almost last line…
Screamingly funny, Bob. And I haven’t seen it in years. We need to get a hold of a print for a private screening. Thanks for this LOL.
Happy Father’s Day, Ellen’s dad! A fine celebration of him, in his own style. Appropriate that I should learn about your dad since you’ve been getting a graduate course in mine lately. You’ve inspired me to add something to my Facebook tribute….
Just saw it. Glad I could a(muse) you. I just added some commentary. Happy Cali Father’s Day, John. And a shout out to King Rick.
Like your father, my dad had a wonderful sense of humor. And he too had a set answer to a similar question commonly posed to him. He had rheumatoid arthritis and someone would invariably as him, “Are you comfortable?” And he would answer, “I make a living”. It always made me chuckle. I never spoke to him or saw him where he didn’t tell me a joke or two or three. Thank you for sharing a piece of who your dad was. It spurred me to share a bit of my dad with you.
Good joke, Sherry. Your dad had a classic Borscht Belt comeback. Nice. And nice of you to share it. We can always use a good laugh-as our fathers so well knew. Thanks, Neighbor.
One more thing. When my dad passed away it was heartbreak for us all. I felt like my right arm had been cut off. But when I thought about it, I realized that what I would miss the most was calling home on Sunday mornings and making him laugh.
I so get that. I’ll hear a joke or something funny will happen to me and I’ll want to share it, too. But I’ve got all of you. And you can always call me, John. (Btw, your father knows.)
Loved this one. Your dad is laughing in heaven!
So glad you liked it! And you’ve mastered the captcha! Thanks. Leslie. Do nice to have you back where you belong.
Yes, I got the same call at 1:00AM. You just know what it’s about.
My dad has been gone 30 years, already. He was only 73. You think they’ll always be there. You never get use to it.
Mom was only 68 when dad died and had to live the next 27 years without him. She was never the same, either.
Every day is a blessing in some way, though. In just six weeks the “old timers” will be heading up North. Count your blessings.
Thanks, Bernie. And you’re one of my blessings. (Along with Catfish Lake.)