Dad in a Jar. Now, With Added Irreverence!

My dad, like my mom, had severe COPD and was on oxygen at home for almost a year. Eleven months to be exact. He loathed the oxygen, despite the fact that it let him be somewhat independent. He tripped over the tubing (which would almost stretch from his house to Walmart and back) several times. When he would curse it I would threaten to seal it up in his urn with his ashes for all of eternity. Boy, that really got him going.

He almost met with a premature self-inflicted cremation when he forgot he was wearing the oxygen and lit up a cigarette. My mother did it several times with no results but my dad was not so lucky. I was not present at the time (but would have loved to be a fly on the wall) and he tried very hard to cover it up. Except for the Hitler-ish soot marks on his upper lip. And the scorched oxygen tubing that I found on the floor days later that looked like a rolled up piece of black duct tape. That little incident bought him a couple days in the hospital with thermal damage to his lungs. And lots of chuckles and eye rolling from the hospital staff I'm sure.

When my dads ashes were ready for pickup I got a phone call from the funeral home "Mrs Arthur your father has arrived." I said "Oh if he just walked in off the street we got trouble." You could hear crickets chirping on the phone. "Im on my way."


They presented the marble urn to me, complete with tote bag (free with $100 purchase?) and death certificates. And an envelope. "This is in case you want to take him on an airplane" the funeral director said. "Um, Im not planning on taking him on vacation" I replied. Again, crickets chirping. "Well some family members like to scatter the ashes and this proves they are legal human cremains" (a creepy word, dontcha think?) "OH! I got it! This is my permit to carry!"

"Lady, we just dont get people around here with a sense of humor."

I guess not.