Inappropriate Laughter

There's so much I don't know.

I'm not talking about the Imponderables, like, what does Antonio Banderas see in Melanie Griffith, and what's kept them together all these years when most of us, if we're honest with ourselves, felt sure it could never last? And I don't mean things like, when is Flag Day, and how exactly does the electoral college work?   These things I know, if for no other reason than because my sister was born on Flag Day, and my parents cared enough about my education to send me to electoral college.

I mean the really big stuff, like, what is the difference between an artist and an artisan? And what is meant by the term artisanal?  Does it mean made in small batches, by men wearing sandals and socks?  In the case of a turkey sandwich I ordered last week at Starbucks, "artisanal" meant heavy on the basil while depressingly skimpy with regard to the turkey. In fact, you could say the basil was performing an artistic interpretation of turkey.

Then there are the questions I could have safely asked years ago, but now risk exposing myself as a luddite, or worse still, one who dons a luddite's posture as an affectation.  What is a podcast?  I was lying in bed last night with my iPad, fully intending to Google "podcast", when I was distracted by the audio books option at the bottom of my screen.  By the time I'd realized that I already owned two copies of Without Feathers, I'd bought a third.  This version is read aloud by Woody Allen, but, let's face it, he's no Antonio Banderas.

It isn't lost on me that Without Feathers is largely about death and fear of dying.  And it's a good thing, since without all the mortality stuff, what we'd have here is a book about penguins, ill-fitting millinery, and inexplicably recurring references to herring.  Without the undercurrent of pain and hopelessness, all that herring would just sound silly.

My mind traveled back to a wake I attended earlier in the evening--the wake being the very thing I was hoping to put out of my mind, at least for a little while, with Woody Allen.  There's a limit to how good a time you're going to have with a coffin in the room, but the mood wasn't the shocked, deer-in-the-headlights, punctuated by wailing experience of my brother Abel's memorial service.  If anything, last night sadness felt like a contrarian reaction, because Mrs. Flynn was a woman of strong faith and she had been ill for a long time.  She was ready to go.

I've known Mrs. Flynn my whole life and she was like a second mother to me.  Below my own mother, but significantly above Mrs. Buckmire, our next door neighbor, who ran a distant third.  (I was a needy child; I needed a lot of mothering.) Mrs. Flynn was tea and toast when you were sick, no swearing, no interrupting, and No thank you, I do not care for broccoli--never, never I hate broccoli! 

Mrs. Flynn was mothering without whimsy.  I was besties with the tenth of her eleven children, and from my vantage point way down near the bottom I saw no panic, no indecisiveness.  Splinters and spurting blood were treated with the same calm and the same Polysporin.  What was wrong was always wrong, and what was allowed was always allowed.  I don't remember ever hearing her raise her voice, and I suspect it was because she didn't have to.  Being around Mrs. Flynn meant that you knew exactly what was expected of you at all times, and I appreciated it.

Mrs. Flynn taught me how to drive, and as you have probably guessed, it's not a skill that came naturally to me.  In fact, the decision for her to take over my behind-the-wheel training occurred shortly after my dad had made an attempt to leap from the passenger-side door while the car was still moving. 

I have a vivid memory of one driving practice in particular.  I was making a left turn from Lake Drive onto Newport.  Mrs. Flynn told me to move to the left-hand lane before signalling my turn, and I did so--straight into blaring horns and oncoming traffic.  She quickly grabbed the wheel, said, hit the gas! and we spun out onto the safety of Newport.  She advised me to pull over and park.  Then she said,  "Next time, use the left lane that's still to the right of the dividing line."

Our drives always took place in my dad's Dodge Aspen station wagon.  At the end of one of our sessions, she had me park in front of my parents' house, right in back of her "Le Car."  Then she told me, "inch forward."  I inched.  "A little further.  Now a little more.  Now, pull forward as slowly as you can, and tap my rear bumper as lightly as you can."  I did as I was told, and like every other person in the world who has hit another car, I was surprised at the force of the jolt even at the slowest possible speed.  "There," she said.  "Never forget what that felt like."

It's hard to leave a wake.  There's a poignancy to those first moments of loss that you know will be gone soon, and all you'll be left with is the absence of that person.  We lingered by the front door too long, heard a bit more about Mrs. Flynn's final hours than I wanted to, and I noticed that one of the flower arrangements held a card that read,  Geraldine, You're a winner! 

Knowing both the sender of those flowers and the honoree, I feel quite sure no reference to popular culture was intended.  And yet, you know where my mind went: straight to tiger blood and Adonis DNA.  Trolls and warlocks.  Drug binges that made Sinatra, Jagger and Richards look like "droopy-eyed armless children."  In short, everything that was not Mrs. Flynn.  I had an almost overwhelming urge to remark, My!  I hadn't realized Mrs. Flynn had her finger on the pulse of  the zeitgeist, right up until the very end."  

What can I say?  This is what my brain does when I'm uncomfortable.  I remembered something my mother told me: several family members on my father's side had, on more than one occasion, been thrown out of funerals for inappropriate laughter.  I kept silent. 

I did not even mention herring.

Comments

[Pam]

I'm afraid I'm guilty of cracking a lame joke in the car between funeral and graveside at my OWN father's funeral -- and it WAS a deer in headlights occasion. Luckily, that's not weird in my family.

I'm sorry for your loss - saying goodbye to the adults of our childhood is hard.

[The Coffee Lady]

I can help out with artisan, because I had to google it only last week.

[eurolush]

Everyone needs a Mrs. Flynn

[Lo]

Mom and Dad sent you to electoral college?? Hmmph! I have very fond memories of Mrs. F. involving at critical junctures in my life: a grilled cheese and avocado sandwich, an electric blanket and my bridal shower. Your post is a nice tribute.

[Mary Flynn]

Thanks Jen, this was wonderful!

[Em]

Really, really beautiful post.

[Amelia]

I love reading your posts.

[Tamara]

[love]

[Paula]

Brilliant post. Mrs. Flynn is proud.

When I tell people I have a podcast I usually get a blank stare and the averted eyes. Then I say, "It is like a radio show but you listen to it from your computer." Ahhhhh.

Shameless plug here but I think you would enjoy my podcast, Knitting Pipeline, because I found you through the Zimmermania blog several years ago. EZ was my knitting mentor and we corresponded for years. Occasionally I read one of her letters on the show. So come on over and listen. You can listen from the show blog or find me on iTunes. People tell me I have a soothing voice and it helps them fall asleep. I choose to take that as a compliment.

[Miss Susan]

Now I have to watch the re-run of the Mary Tyler Moore episode where she bursts out laughing at Chuckles the Clown's funeral.

It's you girl, and you should know it. You're gonna make it, after all.