The day after my father’s cremation, my sister, step-mother and I stopped to get something to eat at a McDonald’s before the long flight back to the mainland from the island of Kauai.
We’d debated stopping at many places on the way to the airport but none appealed to my step-mother. They were too “native” looking.* Thus, it was Mickey D’s or nothing. She was not happy but back in 2006 the airport on Kauai offered only coffee and donuts. Maybe a pineapple but you get the picture.
At first my step-mother didn’t want to leave the car. She didn’t want a hamburger; she didn’t want fries. She didn’t want anything to drink and she didn’t want to leave my father alone in the car. “Your father didn’t like McDonald’s,” she said. It was a hot, humid day and she’d just spent three days being chauffeured:
- to the beach where he’d died to thank the lifeguards who’d tried to save him
- to the tiny hospital to thank the doctor who declared him dead and whom she hoped had saved the speedo swimsuit he’d died in (don’t ask why – you really don’t want to know)
- to the offices of the island newspaper so she could buy an ad thanking all the people of Kauai she might have forgotten to thank, and finally:
- to the police station to try to expedite the release of his death certificate (they hadn’t even done the autopsy yet). She’d gone bonkers. She needed to eat something other than cookies.
“We’ll bring Dad into the McDonald’s,” I finally said. “He can sit with us.”
“Okay but he’ll insist on paying. That’s just the kind of man he was,” Kathy sniffled, handing me his wallet.
I was exhausted and perhaps a bit hung-over (my sister and I had managed a quick trip to a nearby liquor store) but holding his wallet in my hands it dawned on me that he was gone and all those plastic cards and pieces of paper that were once so necessary were now worthless where he was going, where all of us are going regardless of our immigration status. In the end we are all undocumented aliens.
The funny thing was, the McDonald’s was full of Native Hawaiians who didn’t think that carrying a large urn full of the ashes of a loved one into a fast food joint was at all odd.
Saying nothing in particular 
We may have documents but they’re meaningless where we’re going. They’re mostly meaningless here too unless we’re doing something that requires them. This was an absorbing story; your step-mother sounds…interesting. Was she always like this or was it shock?
I could never figure out my step-mother to tell you the truth. She was good to me and so I tried to be good to her but she had this Southern gentility thing going on that was often way over the top and she thought all dark-skinned people were out to get her.
I may have to keep a little envelope with a few ashes of my father in my wallet when he goes.
Isn’t the saying, if you’re remembered you’re never really dead.
My cousin still has my mother’s ashes sitting in an urn on his mantel – she helped him kick alcoholism and he’s sure he’ll slip without her there. Of course before she died she told us to “let Curt take charge of my ashes and do with them what he will” – I guess she knew. When it comes to dealing with death we all have our … what’s the word … whimsies?
We buried mum and dad so we could plant a tree on top and they would fertilize it. It’s a woodland grave site. When we’ve went back last year for another family funeral and thought we’d pop in to see how their oak was getting on we couldn’t find which was the right tree. They’d all grown and it looked very different (doh!). Oh well, I guess they’re still there somewhere.
We did the same thing with my father – in a park near where he lived in Reno Nevada.It wasn’t what he wanted. My step mother remembered … after the cremation … that he’d wanted his body donated to science. Ah well, she said. Ah well indeed, we replied.
Along time ago I wrote, we are all going home. I really hate that line now since home turns out to be one of the most conservative, MAGA towns in the country. Poor pitiful me. Really excellent piece of writing. Making death humourous is difficult.b Thanks. Duke
Thanks Duke. Everyone who knew my father agreed, he left on his own terms. At his memorial his old flying buddies all snarled “The old bastard pulled it off!” as many of them were already confined to walkers.
Texas ruby red state Senate seat flipped by Democrat yesterday. The shocking thing is, the union guy won by 18 points! Special election. Maybe my above comment is not as bad as I thought. Weasel Governor Abbott is not sleeping tonight I can assure you. Duke
I saw that this morning! Texas is going to be the real test, I think. Keep in mind that thousands of Californians have been forced to relocate to Texas because their employers have moved there for tax reasons.
Grief can do strange things to people. It was very good of you to cater to her needs, odd though they may have been.
I totally relate to you being brought up short by your dad’s wallet. I did the exact same thing when my mother passed. Those cards and IDs once so vital, now irrelevant. It’s very poignant.
*hugs*
Thanks Rivergirl. Hugs back.
A McDonald’s in Hawaii seems so out of place, intrusive even. Funny how we visit a place for its authenticity and then complain when it’s ‘too native.’ There are many treasures and tidbits of wisdom in this piece, Jan. Even the funny bits were enlightening.
Thank you! At that time it was a popular place for Hawaiian families – inexpensive and fast, with toys for the kids and outdoor seating. They don’t grow potatoes or raise cattle on Kauai! (and not too many tourists go to the islands for a Big Mac!)
I love the humour you wrote into this post. It’s one of your best. Death is a serious subject, but laughter makes it much more acceptable and tells us that life will go on without us if we choose to stay.
Thanks Hugh. At times like those, humor is the only way to survive. Besides my father hated sentimentality!