Swimming with the Fishes, Fer Reals

So this week I made my plans to go down to Florida and, per my dad's request, scatter his cremains in Florida Bay.

Not terribly funny right? Not material fit for a humor blog? Oh, just you wait for it, my friends.

So in doing some research, I learned that in order to accomplish these last wishes, I wouldn't be able to spread the ashes off a peaceful dock somewhere with a nice view. I would need to rent a boat, since Florida law says you can't spread cremains in the water unless it's three miles off-shore.

Given this is about the same distance I see smokers these days having to walk away from a public building in order to have a cigarette, this wasn't entirely surprising to me.

So the question for me became: what the heck kinda boat does one rent for such an occasion? I mean, this is Dad. This isn't the former Little Big Jimmy Left-Feet of the Parmagiana Crime Family who you speedboat out to the Everglades while playing the Miami Vice theme song, dump him in, and hope for curious crocs before the police get wind.

One has a certain expectation for decorum here.

Worse, I was getting visions of fishing charters where I'd be scattering ashes on one side of the boat while Stan, George and Mindy Sue there on the other side of the boat were tapping a keg and pulling in the Catch of the Day. "Hey, watch it, lady-- it's drifting. You got a little of your father on our flounder!"

(I know, I can't believe I wrote that, either. But this is the way my mind works under stress.)

So I called the main funeral home down in the Keys and explained the situation. They were very understanding and kindly gave me a referral to a reliable place their clients often use in sad times just like this:

It happened to be a dive shop.

Yes, in between snorkeling trips and dolphin wrangling and whatnot, this dive shop takes the bereaved out in boats so their loved ones can swim with the fishes for all eternity.

So very Florida Keys.

But here's the kicker, the thing that nearly made me burst into wholly inappropriate fits of giggles...

I booked the boat, was glad to have this one increasingly complex task finally pinned down, my mind relieved, and the nice Dive Dude says to me, "So, will you be wanting to go in the water after?"

"Um... WHAT?!"

"Well, sometimes people want to do snorkeling trips on the way back."

"From the funeral?"

"Yeah. They stop to go diving. Will anyone be swimming?" he asked, his voice filled with total sincerity.

"Um, no."

To my knowledge, Jimmy Buffet has never mentioned this in his songs.

The Great Dad's Day Doorknob-a-Rama

A new tie... Some hot electronics... Power tools...

These are the traditional Fathers' Day gifts for dad. Unless, of course, you were my Dad in the 80s. And then, I knew, gifting success might very well depend on finding...

(Wait for it.)

..A weird antique doorknob.

No, truly.

Among many, many other things, Dad collects doorknobs-- though not as avidly as he once did. I guess once you've checked out all the knockers that are out there... once you've gotten your hands on knobs of all sizes and types... you begin to realize you've seen it all. You settle for what you have. You become complacent.

Interest wanes.

But when I was around 12 or so, doorknobs took center stage in my family's weekend antiquing travels...

Also the dining room.

Yep, my father's dad had been a residential contractor, so I suppose the initial inspiration (some might call it "blame") for Dad's Doorknob-a-rama lies with him.

A pack rat in his own right, he'd brought home the leftover antique hardware from the places he'd renovated, and my good ol' Dad had taken a shine to them.

So it wasn't long before, displayed upon the walls as proudly as you please, there was a veritable museum quality timeline of door hardware. Doorknobs carved from minerals, doorknobs made from brass, doorknobs crafted from mercury glass, and some handpainted with delicate porcelain flowers.

There were knobs with glass beads embedded into them... Crystalline knobs that had turned amethyst from years in the sun... Black knobs, brown knobs, knobs from public schools in the 1800s... Each example was bolted to the giant Doorknob Display Boards that covered the walls of the room my long-suffering, doorknob-silent Mom used for entertaining.

It was initially always a little hard to explain to guests.

But what was more challenging-- at least for my pre-teen self-- was being around Dad when he was in doorknob scouting mode.

We'd go to quaint historic towns in Bucks County, PA, and good ol' dad was there with his camera, prepped to take documentary souvenir photos of...

Peoples' old door hardware on their homes.

It's not the easiest thing to sum up tidily for folks who spied him... the ones with questioning stares, the raised eyebrows. Was he casing the joint? No, he was just trying to get the lighting just right on that great octagonal pewter beauty.

Now, this was a time of my life when I pretty much was already embarrassed about... oh... everything. Like the fact Dad insisted on wearing black dress socks with Bermuda shorts.... The fact Mom always wore widebrimmed hats and big sunglasses, looking like Audrey Hepburn trying badly to evade the press...

The fact that I was, well, me.

So having people actually see me strolling the streets and waiting quietly while my dad spent time trying to get just the perfect shot of someone's brass knobs...

It was a special form of Adolescent Hell.

Add to that, any additions to his collection purchased for keepsies at the local flea markets went --not into the trunk of the car. No, see, that would be easy. We could almost have pretended we were normal then.

But instead, they went straight into Dad's jacket pocket... To be brought out to gleefully show the waitress at whatever restaurant in which we enjoyed dinner that day.

I recall him once asking some poor unsuspecting server, "Have you ever seen a pair of knobs like these?"

You can imagine, there really is no good answer to that.

So, as Father's Day is upon us once again, I think back to the days of Knob Hunting.

Now that the Pop has downsized, he has pared down the overall Doorknob-a-Rama quantities. His collection fits, these days, in one small display cabinet in his Florida home.

And that's okay by me. Because I no longer feel compelled, on a yearly basis, to venture into antique stores, peer into their glass cases, and force myself to ask to see their knobs.

Yep, these days, I get him a gift certificate for Ebay. Because, hey, on Ebay, they really have seen it all.


So tell me, what makes YOUR dad happy on Father's Day? I bet it isn't doorknobs. :)

Pop Meets Haute Cuisine at the Hotel Not-So-Hot

Infected, inspected, injected, detected and neglected. That was my father in the hospital this last week for some tests...

Okay, well, it's also Arlo Guthrie's "Alice's Restaurant." But this version is without all the singing in four-part harmony with feelin'. Trust me on this.

I must say, it isn't exactly easy to keep the "hum" in humor blogging while also worriedly stalking a parent, hundreds of miles away, to find out the latest on his condition.

However. After my Pop's stay in the Hotel Not-So-Hot, which he accepted like a real trooper, I hoped to lighten the discussion by asking him about the hospital food. I mean, what's a better, more common joke-- what brings people together of all races, creeds, and hairstyles-- than a discussion of the poor quality of hospital food? It seemed a can't-miss moment.

And see, I've mentioned this before, but the Popper has never eaten often. Nope, I think he finds the whole breakfast, lunch and dinner shebang to be a fairly kooky, bewildering, and excessive process.

In fact, the way he talks about it, even I-- a lunch-and-dinner person-- come away feeling a bit like a flagrant calorie intaker gorging myself like Jabba the Hutt on senior slug discount night at Mos's-- the planet Mos Isely's one-and-only, all-you-can-eat buffet...

(Star Wars Nerds, please do not email me saying that Jabba the Hutt never went to Mos Isley. He hauled his big sluggy butt there for the purposes of this example, 'kay?)

Now, where was I?

Oh, right. The Popper's One-Real-Meal-a-Day Strategy. So in the Wide World of Dad, Pop has this theory that what people really need is seven Ritz crackers or a handful of peanuts, to fill the long space of hungries between morning coffee and the more elaborate evening meal. He's always very specific about it. Seven Ritz crackers.

So I ask Pop after his stay, how exactly was the hospital food? Expecting to hear about food overkill plus canned spinach and mystery meat, and a mind-boggling lack of Ritz crackers.

But it turns out Five-Star bistros in the Restaurant Guidebook of New York apparently have NOTHING on this facility of healthcare kitchen! I mean the man could not SAY ENOUGH about the fine cuisine he experienced during his stay.

He began with, "And there were three meals a day!" with a tone of delight and wonder usually reserved for describing Disney rides.

Or the birth of a child.

And then he went on that there was even DESSERT! And there was a NUTRITIONIST who came by and wanted to make sure he was eating all right, and...

Why, to hear him talk, it was like a spa vacation! A spa vacation with needles and bags of fluids and a guy in the next bed breathing in gurgling wheezes all night. But a vacation nonetheless.

So thanks, hospital-near-Pop for looking after my dear father and giving him great care and possibly some of the best food he's had in a while, though that scares me a bit.

It's beginning to confirm a suspicion I've had all along... which is that my good ol' dad's stance on mealtime is not really related to a three-meals-a-day issue but, in fact, connected directly to an "I'll eat it if you bring it" philosophy.

The other alternative is that, Hospital Folks, you have cloned my Pop and possibly have given me back the wrong one.

It could be that the clone is out and about, enjoying three squares a day now, while Real Pop is still there with you, insisting that all he really needs to survive during the next eight to ten hours is seven Ritz crackers or a palmful of peanuts in the shell.

Which is it? Because, honestly, I'd like to have the clone for a day or so around Thanksgiving. The seven Ritz crackers aren't quite what I hope for when I visit at the holidays. In fact, I've taken to bucking the system and bringing my own snacks. So I figure, at the very least, we might be able to hit the hospital cafeteria one day, and enjoy an elegant, festive lunch of grilled cheese, three-bean salad and Jell-0.

I mean, there's nothing like a bit of mealtime camaraderie with the ones you love.


To all the Dads and Grand-dads who visit Of Cabbages and Kings, I hope your Father's Day is very special.

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Humor-blogs is fortifying for your funny bone.