If It Isn’t One Thing, It’s Another. Like, Duh.
Hugh’s grandmother passed away yesterday at the age of 94. She was a classy lady and I will miss her.
In accordance with her wishes, there will be a small gravesite ceremony in Florida, where her husband of fifty-years, is buried. In accordance with some rule of her religion, she will be buried as quickly as possible (which, I have no idea, Catholic, remember? When one of our people dies we have wakes that go on for days, viewings, a reading of the rosary, a mass, a rummage sale….you get the idea) which means that only Oscar, Emily, Oscar’s brother and his wife and the grandchildren (Hugh, his siblings and cousins) will be attending the funeral and, I’m ok with that.
What I’m not ok with is that fact that Hugh will be a thousand miles away Monday night, when our baseball team plays its first game of the season. It’s kind of hard to play a game without a coach. With any luck, though; one of the other fathers will step up and agree to coach the team during the game. If not, I guess I will have no choice but to do it my own damn self.
Did you hear that noise? That would be my father falling to the ground in a fit of laughter. Yeah, laugh it up now, big man but, don’t be surprised when I call you in a fit of hysteria because I need a rules clarification.
Hugh’s departure also means that I will be on my own this weekend, sorting, matching and distributing the team uniforms for each team in the league. The woman who usually handles this gargantuan task is attending the fifth grader’s annual trip to Mesa Verde and, as much as I might complain about dealing with a hundred and fifty pairs of purple socks; I would much rather do that than chaperone 120 ten and eleven year-olds on a school trip. Been there, done that. Got the tee-shirt.
Besides, I can sort through the boxes of uniform pants, shirts and hats while drinking white wine and watching Battlestar Galactica, the same of which could not be said for scaling ancient Native American ruins.