What a week. What a crazy-long, time-bending week. The death of a loved one keeps you busy, for real. For once, though, my chronically unstructured lifestyle came in handy and I was very glad I could take ten days to go to Maryland and help out.
And how about that lady friend of mine? Taking time off work and buying a plane ticket to come support me and my family? What a gal.
The visitation Thursday night brought out not only friends and family of my grandparents, but also some people from the local pharmacy, the florist, and the dental hygienist. Small-town life is really impressive at times like that. I was also surprised to see some of our old neighbors from when we lived in Delaware twenty years ago, who drove an hour and a half just to be there for my dad. I hadn't seen some of them since we packed up the moving van two decades ago. Good people.
The memorial service on Friday was just as moving, with my mother making me as proud as a son can be when she delivered a lengthy remembrance of her mother in law that spoke for the whole family. Also speaking when the floor was opened were the next door neighbors, a pair of young teachers with an infant son who seemed genuinely affected by having lived in close proximity to my grandparents for the past couple years. I'm glad people like that are around now to keep an eye on my grandfather as he transitions into a life of doing his own laundry and cooking his own meals.
Speaking of meals: my digestive system will thank me for getting back into a routine of eating less meat and more plants after a week of chowing down on the kind of stuff people like to make for the bereaved. And when we weren't eating fried chicken, meatloaf and potatoes, we were eating out. Insanity. I was going out of my way just to get some fiber into my diet.
And while I'm on a tangent, and in the interest of transitioning the tone of this blog back to where it belongs, does anyone else wish the NFL would quit using those self-important roman numerals for the Super Bowl? I know I'm over a week late on this, and I had planned on writing and ranting about it back before the event took place, but it's still pissing me off as I catch up on my sports reading, as it does every year. I know I can't be alone when, coming across the symbols XLIII, I read it in my head as "Exity-flibbity-flabbity," or whatever other gibberish my mind interprets it to be. Yes, I can figure out what those numerals translate to, but, much like reading the hands on a clock, I can't do it at a glance. Nor should I have to. That's why we have Arabic numerals, the standard in the western world. Give me a simple 4 and 3, because I'm watching and reading about football precisely as a diversion from the things in life that require focus. And doesn't Wrestlemania also use roman numerals? Enough said.