Sunday, July 19, 1998

Small mistake reminds her husband gone

By Sharon Randall

My tombstone will read: "Here lies Sharon, poor thing, she meant well."

When I was little and got stung trying to free a wasp from a spider's web, my mother said, "Honey, your heart's in the right place. But your head is screwed on backwards."

I have good intentions. Usually. But things don't always work out as I intend.

Take last weekend. It was a good idea getting my grown children to go to my husband's family reunion. The last time they saw their dad's aunts and uncles and cousins was at his memorial service last January.

This would be a happier occasion. The kids wanted to go. They're old enough now to appreciate family. A few years back, they'd rather have been bitten to death by spiders than spend a day listening to people tell them how much they look like their dad. Now they seem to like hearing it.

For the reunion, they each made sacrifices: My oldest flew up from Los Angeles. My daughter took off from work. And my youngest got a haircut. But they refused to go early for the brunch. Fine, I said, we'll go to the barbecue.

And they didn't want to drive two hours, all of us in a Honda. Too bad, I said, we don't have the van to kick around any more. And they really didn't want to listen to each other's music. Great, I said, we'll listen to mine.

Children grow up, parents get old, but family road trips are still expressways to hell. The only difference is now my oldest drives and I'm the one whining "Are we there yet?"

Blame for the mishap

I blame that, mostly, for the mishap. We stopped for gas and while the kids went to buy snacks (nasty candy called "Sour Jacks") I hit the car wash. The Honda was a mess. My husband would never have gone to his reunion in a car that dirty. When I drove out dripping, the kids were waiting, grinning.

"How's it look?" I said.

"Mom," said the oldest, "you forgot to lower the antenna. It's, uh, bent."

Not just bent. Screwed.

"Shut up and drive," I told him. "And pass me some of those Sour Jacks."

The reunion, once we got there, was a lovely affair, lots of food and laughter and reminiscing. I watched my children working the crowd, fitting right in, reaffirming their places in the fabric of a family that's been tattered, but not torn apart, by time and distance and death. I laughed, seeing how their faces lit up each time someone told them they look like dad.

I had so much fun I forgot about the antenna until we fired up the car to go home. There was a hideous "clank, whrrp, clank" -- like a robot slowly being strangled -- as the twisted metal rod tried in vain to right itself.

All of a sudden, I was mad: Mad at myself for screwing up the antenna; mad at my kids for snickering; and really mad at my husband because, had he been there with us, where he belonged, that antenna would never have gotten screwed.

Then my youngest -- he who looks most like his father -- came once more to my rescue.

"Hey, Mom," he said. "Did Dad ever tell you about the time he drove the van through the car wash and forgot to shut the sunroof?"

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service