She died early on a Wednesday, September 18th, of congestive heart failure. She had been in the hospital in Arlington, Virginia, for about a week — the second time since my return from overseas just a month earlier. My sister Merna got the call from the hospital, and immediately called me just as I was getting ready to leave for work. We had been mentally preparing for the inevitable — Mother was 84 years old with a long-term heart condition, after all. So we dropped everything and got busy.

By the way, did I mention that September 18th was my sister’s birthday?

Well, yes . . . it was. Mother died on her daughter’s birthday. And that’s just the beginning. It got better from there.

Let me explain that we’re Jewish. This is significant because we are required to bury our dead . . . well, technically, anyway . . . within 24 hours, unless that day falls on a Saturday (the Sabbath), or if . . .

Anyway, it’s complicated. But in modern times, because families don’t necessarily stay together in the same village for their entire lives and often have to travel substantial distances for the funeral, the 24-hour rule becomes a practical impossibility, and “as soon as possible” takes its place. And since we had already purchased a burial plot for her near her parents’ graves in her home town of Woonsocket, Rhode Island — some 500 miles away — we had a couple of days’ leeway.

So we made a list of people to be notified, divided it between us, and started making those dreaded calls. Our aunt Ethel — our mother’s younger (and only remaining) sister — lived in Rhode Island, as did her daughter Beryl, son-in-law and granddaughter. Poor Beryl got the call, along with the task of telling her own mother that she had just lost her sister. And — being a take-charge sort of person — she also volunteered to handle the funeral arrangements at her end. Thank Heaven for great cousins!

Calling my daughter Randi was a little more difficult. Super-bright, super-capable, and super-empathetic, she also tends to be super-emotional. And, as she is quick to tell you, she was born under the sign of Leo . . . meaning, she is super-dramatic as well.

Now, Randi and my mother were not always the best of friends, primarily because Randi was a bit too independent to suit her grandmother, who was . . . how to put it diplomatically? . . . a control freak. So, after listening to a few minutes of truly awe-inspiring histrionics — brought about, no doubt, by some unnecessary pangs of guilt — I told her to pack a bag and drive up (she lived about 100 miles away), so that we could fly to Rhode Island together the following day.

She arrived that evening . . . having packed, for what was to be a three-day trip, seven pairs of socks and no toothbrush. But at least she remembered to bring deodorant.

*. *. *

In the meantime, Merna and I headed for the nearest funeral parlor, where they had taken custody of our mother from the hospital . . . and where, in typical undertaker fashion, the resident ghoul tried to sell us the most luxurious, expensive casket in the place — despite the fact that we had told him that, being Jewish, we would require a plain box. (Another one of those interesting little rules.)

My sister, whose nerves were understandably a bit on edge, finally decided she’d been nice enough for long enough, and said to him — not loudly, but in an ominously quiet voice — “Listen: we’re in mourning; we’re not stupid.” And so the $5,000 casket remained where it was, and the pine box found a new occupant.

*. *. *

So off we went on Thursday morning — three strong, independent women — to bury the family matriarch: my sister, my daughter, seven pairs of socks, one newly-purchased toothbrush, and me.

Oh . . . did I mention that our mother was also with us on our flight — in her plain wooden box, in the baggage compartment? A little detail that Merna and I had agreed not to reveal to Randi until much, much later. We didn’t need her going all hysterical on the plane!

*. *. *

We arrived safely and were met at the airport in Providence by our cousin, who took us directly to our aunt’s apartment. Presumably, Mother went wherever the newly deceased go whenever they arrive from out of town.

Let me interject here that Ethel was my favorite aunt: kind, loving, giving, thoughtful, fun to be with . . . and a fabulous cook. Knowing how much I loved them, she had set aside her grief and prepared my favorite blintzes . . . which are a hell of a lot of work. But that’s the kind of person she was. (We lost her about 19 years later.) When her own husband passed away, she was found — around 3:00 a.m. — in the kitchen, on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor to within an inch of its life.

*. *. *

Later, after blintzes, came the traditional visit from the rabbi.

Have you ever seen the movie version of “Fiddler On the Roof”? If not, you must. Jewish or otherwise, you will love it. Anyway, there is one character in it — called Mottel the Tailor ** — who ultimately marries Tzeitel, the eldest daughter of the lead character. And Mottel is a sweet, honest, hard-working nebbish — tall and gangly, shy, timid, unsure of himself, but madly in love with Tzeitel since childhood.

** In the story, his name is spelled “Motel.” But I didn’t want you thinking it was pronounced like an overnight rest stop.

So, there we were — a family gathered for a funeral, full of blintzes, talking about old times, and preparing for the following day’s proceedings — when there was a knock on the door. It was the rabbi, come to pay his respects. He was greeted by my aunt and ushered into the living room, where Merna and I — seated side-by-side — took one look at him, immediately turned to each other and, in perfect unison, whispered: “It’s Mottel.”

That poor rabbi did not know what to think when we two suddenly burst into uncontained laughter. And we could hardly enlighten the poor guy . . . but he was the image of the character from one of our favorite movies. And, to top it off, he was new to the congregation and not familiar with the family; so he was at a total loss.

Choking back laughter, I finally told him we had been reminiscing about some funny incidents from our childhood, which he had no choice but to accept. But the expression on his face told me he was terrified that he had walked into a lunatic asylum. We were, after all, supposed to be weeping in each other’s arms . . . not whooping it up.

Yes, I lied to a rabbi . . . which probably explains why I have arthritis today. We’re also a superstitious lot.

*. *. *

The day of the funeral dawned as you would expect: dark and pouring down rain. Classic. And we had opted for a graveside service rather than a more formal one in the synagogue, as our mother hadn’t lived in Rhode Island for many years and no longer knew many people there, so we weren’t expecting a large gathering. But it’s a small-ish town, with an even smaller Jewish community, so word had spread quickly.

Armed with umbrellas, we arrived at the cemetery and were walking from our cars to the grave site, when suddenly — also in true Hollywood movie fashion — the clouds parted and the sun burst forth. To this day, I swear that my mother had something to do with that.

And as Merna, Randi and I stood waiting for the service to begin, I happened to look toward the cemetery entrance just as a handsome gentleman walked in. They had no idea who he was, but I did — and I walked toward him, he threw his arms around me, and we hugged for a full minute . . . while my daughter and my sister wondered who on earth I had been fooling around with unbeknownst to them.

I’ve always believed there’s nothing like a little mystery and a bit of gossip to enhance one’s reputation. But I wasn’t able to keep the secret for long, because the gentleman in question was Larry, one of my cousin’s closest friends, whom I knew fairly well but for some reason Merna and Randi had never met.

In any event, the sudden appearance of the sun and the handsome stranger lightened the atmosphere a bit, and we got through the funeral at last . . . though with the rabbi still convinced we were a family of maniacs.

Then it was back to my cousin’s house, where the traditional post-funeral meet-greet-and-eat took place. It turned out that, while our mother hadn’t many friends left in Woonsocket, our aunt had more than her share . . . and they all knew how to cook.

*. *. *

There’s an old joke that says the history of the Jews can be summed up in three sentences:

“They tried to kill us.”
”They failed.”
”Let’s eat.”

And in that tradition, on the return flight, Merna and I drew up a guest list for the party we planned to throw for the Washington-area friends who were unable to attend the funeral. And a hell of a sendoff it was.

Even our mother would have been pleased.

*. *. *

Having written all of this — and I’m still not sure what triggered it — it occurs to me that I have more amusing memories of my mother’s death than her life. But there are a few of those as well, and perhaps I’ll be inspired to dig them out of the depths of my memory to share with you one day.

For now, however, it’s time to eat . . . again. I only wish I had some of Aunt Ethel’s blintzes!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
3/10/25