Southern Gothic Horror

There’s an absurdly comic yet pathetically sick and demented way to report what I’ve seen. The funeral – really a memorial service since the flesh was long gone – was scheduled for a Monday. On that first Monday, a number of people stopped by and wished condolences for missing the funeral and the loss of Mr. Wetzel. But that’s not the half of it. How many funerals have a dress rehearsal?

According the to clergy, more than a dozen mourners stopped by, a week early. It only gets more bizarre. Almost two dozen cakes, a couple of the early ones were store-bought cakes, but after that, the real pastry chefs got into gear. I counted three chocolate, one rum cake, some kind white cake with tall frosting that was better than the cake itself, and then some jello stuff. Scary, in a way, and weird, in a way.

The house smells like lilies, flowers of several flavors, I’m sure. Lots of roses, too.

Sister was commenting on food issues, again, “Yeah, I had a hankering for donuts and salami.” A half-dozen Crispy Cream and some Italian hard salami. No symbolism?

“No, that would have to be a donut and a donut.”

I’m not asking.

My father passed away, relatively quickly, from complications from his stomach surgery. One item I conveniently tossed out was a jar of half-eaten salsa. The expiration date, on the lip of the jar? 2003.

My mother used to collect pigs, figurines, images, salt & pepper shakers, and so on. But my mother is, to this day, a vegetarian. However, one of her friends did bring by a honey-baked ham. Whole pig. Huge.

The vegetarian issue is funny, too. After heart surgery, ten, maybe twelve years ago, for health reasons, my mother quit eating meat. His heart, her diet.

“Can you explain the fishing thing?” Sister to Cousin.

“Fishing? It’s a recessive gene.” Cousin’s terse reply.

Southwest Airlines, flies in and out of Dallas Love Field. The problem is, now a very inner-city airport, there are urban limits. The first couple of jets blast off, every morning, right at 6 AM. Better than an alarm clock.

Part of the Gothic Horror? Not really, because, when faced with that decisions himself, my father didn’t trade the wife for the tractor. She made him give it up. The wife made him give up the tractor.

Sister would periodically lapse into a strange southern drawl then lisp laconically about whatever the issue was; however, this was most prompted by some friend’s “tomato aspic.”