The Long Goodbye

Greetings WYMOP fans!

Now I know some of you looked at the title of today's post and thought to yourselves 'Oh, crap, it's another sad story about his grandmother.'

Well you would be wrong. This week we have another Handsome Tale, and it's one that made me laugh in the end. Ready?

Okay. Here's the story:

This is not a real photo of Handsome

Earlier this Summer Handsome went off to Boy Scout camp. It was his first real time away from home without either of his parents around, and it was going to be for an entire week. We went to the parent/scout meetings and heard all about what they would be doing for the week: the activities, the projects, the games.

The warnings.

Neither is this.

 We were warned repeatedly, since we were the parents of a first-time camper, that being separated from his parents might be difficult for him. We were told time and again that home-sickness had been a problem for many campers in the past, especially first-timers, that just might apply for our Handsome. They told us that when mid-week came, and ‘visiting day’ rolled around (Wednesday), that we might want to skip it —  in fact, they advised us strongly to do just that —  just in case our handsome was in the throes of a terrible longing to come back to be with his family, his home, and his stuff.

We took it to heart. In the days leading up to Scout Camp week there was some serious discussion between his mother and me as to whether we would be attending visiting day at all. It was decided (in other words, I was told in no uncertain terms, but I honestly expected as much) that his mother would be visiting him while I would not (I had to work anyway). Now the only thing to worry about, really, was the goodbye.

We would both be there to drop him off, you see, and I usually get a hug goodbye and kiss him either on the cheek or the top of the head whenever I leave. This time, though, he was going to be there at camp with all his scouting friends. Would a hug from his old man be his undoing? Would there be a welling of tears, on either side, something for the other boys to use as fodder for the teasing that always goes on when you get a group of boys together for any length of time, whether those ‘boys’ are fourteen, forty, or old enough to have serous discussions comparing  the pros and cons of canes vs. walkers?

I didn’t know. What I did know, sure as shootin’ (you know, I’ve never used that phrase in real life, just in writing), was that on the big day I was goin to get my hug. At least. And damn the consequences.

Well, the big day came. We made the 90 minute drive down south to the camp to drop him

off with the dozens of other Scouts that would be staying there that week. We took the tour of the place, then got to go to the camp site his troop had chosen to help him set up what would be his home for the next six nights. I helped him put the mosquito netting up around his cot. He and his tent-mate draped a tarp over the entire tent in an effort to actually rain-proof the WWII surplus (I **** you not) temporary structure, in case of inclement weather. Handsome changed into his Class A uniform in preparation for chow.

The camp was set up.

There was nothing more to do.

It was time.

Nope yet again!

Steeling myself against the potential embarrassing tears, hardening my heart against the possibility that I’d have to peel a sobbing ten-year-old from me as he clung, starfish-like to my waist, fighting not to be left behind, I turned to see him strolling across the camp site with two of his friends.

“It’s time for us to go, Kiddo,” I said, spreading my arms just a little, prepared to catch his 140 lbs as it hurtled into my embrace.

“See ya,” he said without breaking stride, flipping a casual wave over his shoulder. He hadn’t even turned around.

“You might want to go say goodbye,” said one of the older, more experienced scouts, as he untied the flaps of his own tent, preparing to change into his Class A uniform as well. “They’re your parents. You’re gonna miss them. Trust me.”

“I’m good,” said Handsome as he strode out of camp toward the dining hall. I turned to Handsome’s mother, my mouth hanging open.

“The son of a bitch pre-empted me!”

We see them growing every day,

They do it right before our eyes,

But still, the fact that they have grown

Can often take us by surprise.

Talk to you later!

And just to continue the scouting theme for the week, here's a quick little commercial that amused me. It's not the Boy Scouts, and I don't understand a word that they say, but really... do you have to?

Goodbye, Grammy.

Elizabeth “Bette” Louise Smales, 87

Groveland, MA. — Elizabeth “Bette” Louise (Stouppe) Smales, 87, of Groveland, Mass., passed on on August 3, 2013, in Merrimac Valley Hospice, Haverhill, Mass., with her family by her side. Born in Little Rock, Ark., to the late Beatrice and Robert Stouppe. She is survived by her husband of 67 years, Robert T. Smales Sr., of Groveland; three children, R. Thomas Smales Jr. and his wife, Kathleen, of Salem, Mass.; Stacia Nancie (Smales) Hill and her husband, Robert Hill of London, England, and Alison (Smales) Pinkava and her husband, SSG Harold Pinkava U.S. Army, of Ft. Sill, Okla.; three brothers, Robert of DeLand, Fla., Hugh of Chelmsford, Mass., and David Stouppe of Hendersonville, N.C.; a sister-in-law, Sylvia Rivard of Sandown, N.H.; 12 grandchildren and stepgrandchildren; eight great-grandchildren and great -stepgrandchildren, all scattered around the world; and many stepcousins, nieces and nephews.

Prior to moving to Nichols Village in Groveland four years ago, Bob and Bette lived in Topsfield, Mass., for 42 years, and Stoughton, Mass., for 15 years before that. During this time, Bette was involved as a volunteer secretary in the Stoughton Congregational Church, secretary at Flying Horse Stables, Hamilton, a volunteer in the Hamilton-Wenham Community Center for many years, as well as volunteer scorekeeper at Groton House Farm Horse Trials in Hamilton.

~ ~ * * ~ ~

This is my grandmother. This was her life.

We gathered this afternoon to celebrate that life and to say goodbye. Such a long life she had, so many things she did, people whose lives she’d touched; the turnout was good. A crowd of people milling about, mingling, talking and laughing. I drifted from group to group in the throng, seeing family and friends, people I did not know, all talking about this woman who had touched all of our lives.

“Remember when …”

“What about that time …”

“Hey, did you know...”

Most of the seats were empty, people preferring the milling and mixing, but I saw one of my aunts sitting alone in the front row, keeping an eye on her mother. Keeping her company. I sat down beside her and we spoke for a few minutes. We did the ‘How are you doing’, the ‘How have you been’ and the ‘How is such-and-such holding up’. Fine, fine, fine.

Remember when. What about the time. Hey, did you know.

My aunt was called away and I was left alone in the front row. It was my turn to watch Grammy, my turn to keep her company. No one asked me, no one tasked me: something in me simply wanted to make sure this woman I loved wasn’t left alone in the gathering. It doesn’t make sense, and I can’t explain it, but I sat and watched as people came by to pay their respects and to say goodbye, then moved off to join the others in Remember when.

My sister came by to hand me a tissue, smiling and lightly mocking.

“You might need this, what with you being one of those sensitive Smales men.”

I put the tissue in my pocket. I didn’t need it. I was thinking about Grammy’s life, the people she touched, the things she did, and I was fine. I usually am.

Remember when. What about that time. Hey, did you know.

The service was held, and the house was packed. Standing room only, I kid you not. Extra chairs were brought in for those of us who’d moved out of the seating to make way for the rest. Prayers were read. My grandfather spoke, moved by the sheer amount of people who were there. People cried. I did not.

The service ended and the attendees filed out, saying a last goodbye to Grammy as they passed. When my turn came I stepped around the kneeling bench (I’ve never been one for much prayer), touched her hair and kissed her forehead, smooth and cold. We all waited as Grampy had a private word with her, and some wept as he bent to give her one last kiss. I handed away that tissue from my pocket, glad I had it though I didn’t need it.

Thanks, Sis.

The reception was grand.

Many of us went back to Grampy’s house after the reception.

Then we went home, which is where I am now.

At home it’s not standing room only. At home there’s no ‘Remember when’. No ‘What about that time’. No ‘Hey, did you know’.

At home I remember my grandfather during my condolence call, sounding slightly lost and saying “I guess I’m going to be living alone for a while.”

At home I remember him standing in the parking lot after the service, making sure everyone got away alright, no one left behind, before getting into his car alone.

At home, getting ready for bed, I’m thinking of that last kiss. I’m picturing my grandfather lying in his own bed, at home, really alone again for the first time in 67 years. I’m wondering if he’s thinking of that last kiss too. I’d imagine he is.

And I am crying.

I love you, Grammy, and I'll miss you, but my sorrow is for those you left behind.

Including me.

Talk to you later.

Getting Our Priorities Straight

Good morning to everyone in the wonderful world of WYMOP!

We had a Service Talk at the Post Office the other day. To understand just what your own letter carrier has to deal with, it might help if you try to read the following out loud:

“It has come to our attention that the public is sometimes confused by the services that we offer here at the Postal Service, namely the names of said services, as opposed to similar services offered by our competitors here in the delivery service industry, who have apparently selected simpler service names. We at the Postal Service have selected certain services whose names cause said confusion to run through a re-naming scheme in order to make these services more accessible to the public and eliminate some of the aforementioned confusion.

Now, the services selected for this scheme are at the moment referred to as Priority Mail and Express Mail. Priority Mail, as you all know, is an attempted two-day delivery, though actual delivery in two days is not guaranteed. Express Mail is our next-day delivery service, by noon or 3pm depending on the service purchased, and that next-day delivery is guaranteed, and is actually the only guaranteed delivery the Post Office offers.

This is apparently confusing to the people purchasing the services, so we have decided to simplify the system as follows:

Priority Mail will no longer be referred to as ‘Priority Mail’, but will be split into three separate services: Priority One-Day, Priority Two-Day and Priority Three-Day mail. The price for each priority package posted will be the same across the board, that is, there will be no dollar difference per Priority, no matter the delivery. The difference will be in the distance: the person will purchase a particular priority based on the distance between the sender and recipient. All of these delivery times will be attempted, and there will still be no actual guaranteed delivery time with any of these services. Now, in reality this makes Priority Three-Day mail practically identical to First Class mail, which has always had an attempted three-day delivery window within the continental United States, but now it has a snazzier, simpler name: Priority Three-Day mail.

Express Mail will no longer be referred to as ‘Express Mail’, but as ‘Priority Express’. It will still be next day guaranteed delivery, for either noon or 3pm depending on whether it’s foreign or domestic, and will still be the only guaranteed service we offer.

So, to recap:

To avoid confusion, Priority and Express mail will now be referred to as Priority One-Day, Priority Two-Day and Priority Three-Day (which is practically the same thing as First Class mail) depending on how far it’s being mailed, and though we say ‘One-Day’, ‘Two-Day’ and ‘Three-Day’, those are all just guidelines and not guarantees, and Priority Express, which is guaranteed and distance is not a factor.

Priority One-Day. Priority Two-Day. Priority Three-Day. Priority Express.”

The Supervisor looked around with a smile.

“Are there any questions?”

Every hand in the room went up. The Supervisor pointed to one man who asked the one question that was on all our minds:

“What?”

The Supervisor looked at all our confused faces and walked away.

Any questions?

Talk to you later!

P.S.

And simply because yesterday someone said they were walking, but I thought they said they were Walken, here's Christopher Walken performing a dramatic reading that cracks me up every time!