Adventures of the Little Bronze Golfer

There are things in life that just aren't funny, but when paired with a series of other unfunny things, you just can't help but laugh. Take my father-in-law for instance. The fact that he died is no laughing matter, but the series of events that have taken place since his passing have turned into somewhat of a sitcom episode.



... The day of the calling hours the urn arrives. We searched high and low for the perfect urn. Scott was an avid golfer, and we wanted to honor him. We figure if he's going to be parked on a shelf somewhere, he was gonna look good doing it. We found a super cool one - you know, as far as urns go. It's a round bronze bottom with a statue of a golfer hitting a ball out of a sand pit on top. Oh, the sand is cool - it looks like a wave as it's blasting out. It's cool. We wanted to have it engraved before the visiting hours began, and before Scott's remains were put inside. This task fell upon me. The funeral director made several phone calls to find someone that could do it for us within the next three hours. Finally we find someone and I went racing across town - empty urn in hand. We headed back to pick it up a couple of hours later on our way to the funeral home for calling hours. I remember thinking, "Wow - the writing is really big, and kind of gawdy for an urn... I just hope Jason and MaryAnn like it. "


They weren't crazy about it, but once the golfer was on top, it kind of grew on us.


Several hours later I'm talking to a group of people at the funeral home when my husband walks up and interrupts me.

"What dates did you tell them to put on the urn?" I immediately panic.

"May 27, 1946 - May 31, 2008, why?"

"They put 1945."


Great! Those morons!


I get in the car afterwards and pull out the paperwork to confirm that they screwed it up only to find that I am the moron! Oh, God, oh God. How could I have messed this up? I know what year his dad was born! My mother was born in 1945 - Scott was born in 1946!!! I know this!! Needless to say I was devastated. I felt so terrible. I would venture to say that this single incident is what caused a series of emotional meltdowns in the weeks to come.



We waited for MaryAnn to say something. Nothing. Not that night and nothing the following day on Friday. Finally on Saturday morning we were preparing to go to the cemetery to inter him, and my husband had to say something to her. I felt so terrible that I just couldn't speak. I had done nothing but cry about it for almost two days over it!



The decision was made to try and fix the date. Jason and I drove all over town to try and get it taken care of. We went back to the monument place that originally sandblasted it to begin with. They just couldn't turn the 5 into a 6 without it looking crappy. They suggested we take it to a jewler to have it buffed out and repolished. No luck. We decide to just sit on it for a while.



So just this past Wednesday I took it to a trophy place that specializes in oddities. Certainly a cylindrical bronze urn is an oddity, and I was right. They said they could do it for us. We decided to just turn it around and have the other side engraved. It was going on a shelf in a mosoleum - no one would ever see the other side! We wanted the writing to be a little more elegant as well. We discussed the different ways they could do it, on a plaque mounted on the urn, or right on the urn itself - we really wanted it right on the urn. I was so careful with the type and font size I chose. I wanted it to be right - especially after my first run at this. They said they could do it. Just to be sure I asked for a print out of exactly what would be engraved on it to get the OK of everyone else involved. I wasn't going to screw this up twice!


"Oh, one more thing. It's too heavy to mount on the engraving machine with his remains in there. We need you to take them out."


WHAT? You're kidding me, right?


I head back out to the car and thought about it. OK, this isn't my first choice of activities today, but it needs to be done and I seem to be the one doing it. I know he's in a bag in there. I could just take him out now, take the urn back inside and just call when I get the OK on the script. Then I wouldn't have to haul my three children - plus the two others I would be babysitting on Thursday- back in to drop this off. OK, let's put the brave suit on and do this - right here, right now.


There's a screw driver in the glove compartment... All I need to do is unscrew these three screws here like this... this should just lift right off of here like this, and "OH, HELL NO!"


There were ashes on my lap. Not a lot, but nonetheless, my father-in-law's ashes were in my freaking lap!!! Not cool, dude! I pushed the lid back on that thing and couldn't get the screws back in it fast enough. I look down. I didn't imagine it. My dead father-in-law's remains were on me. They were on my gym pants to be exact. Now, I don't know if you've ever experienced ash before, but it's super baby fine fluffy stuff. There's no scooping it up and putting it back. I totally get why Keith Richards snorted up his dad's ashes now. If I could have gotten my face in my lap, I probably would have done the same thing. What do you do? Me? I wore dirty gym pants to the Y yesterday and talked to Scotty while we worked out together... I eventually have to wash the pants though. Some of him just rubbed into my hands like baby powder - I like to think most of the escaped ash got soaked in to me rather than the gym pants. We're only talking a little bit, but a little bit is more than enough for me.


I call the funeral director's cell phone and tell him to call whoever is working today because I'm on the way. I get there and tell the guy to take Scotty upstairs.

"I don't want to know what goes on up there, I just want him taken out, put in a box, marked with big black letters and parked on a shelf. Just don't lose him!!! I'll be back in a couple of days to have him put back in there."

I get the OK on the writing that night from everyone and head back to drop the urn off on Thursday. They call later that afternoon to tell me it's done and I can pick it up anytime. Great!

Saturday morning rolls around and we all pile into the van to go take care of Grandpa's "trophy." Jason pulls up to the shop and I hop out to go get the urn. The woman puts the urn on the counter and this panicy feeling took over in my chest. What the hell is that?

There's a big plaque stretched across the front of Scotty's urn. The lettering looks really nice - it's all black and elegant - AND ON A PLAQUE! The lady explains to me that with the curverature of the urn and the type of script we chose, it looked distorted and, well, just bad when they did it. They called the cemetery and got approval of the plaque before they put it on though. Uh, did they lose my number?... no, they were able to call me to tell me it was done! Well, they didn't charge us for it (damn right) and said if the rest of the family was unhappy, they would do their best to replace it.

It's not great, but it's not that bad either. Let's put him on the shelf. Enough of this.

We all pile back into the van (with Grandma this time) and head off to the cemetery. I'll admit, there really was a sense of relief here. I just couldn't mess with trying to get this thing fixed any more.

We get in and go to put him in the case only to discover that it's about 4 inches too tall. We checked the dimentions on the internet before we ordered it, but apparently those were the dimentions for the little bronze golfer statue on the top - not both the urn and the statue together. I, of course, took it so personally. I was the one that found it on the web to begin with (although I sent the dimentions to my husband to make sure it fit the space...) plus I was the one handling both screw ups on the engraving. Can I do nothing right to honor this man? Seriously, this is beyond the point of ridiculous.

"Well, those spaces over there look a little taller, is there a shelf anywhere in this entire mosoleum that he will fit?"

"I think they're all sold, but I'll check."

They disappear to go find the books and Jason's step mother just looks at me and says, "I can't take him back home with me. I can't get on with my life with him there with me. It's just too hard." The severity, the panic, the absolute heartbreak in her voice just killed me. "He's welcome to come to our house."


The caretaker and the woman from the office are digging through these ancient books trying to find an empty shelf that hasn't been claimed by anyone else, and they found one. It was just across the way from Jason's mother's urn, and was right on the end at eye level. It was a great spot - plus it put Scott closer to his parents. It was perfect! He fit beautifully, and we were so happy! They sealed the glass back up and the woman turned to us and said, "That space is $200 more than the other one though..." WE DON"T CARE! She could have told us it was $500 more and wouldn't have cared - she really could have made a profit off of us!

As he was being put on the shelf, Jason's stepmother leans into me ans with a smile on her face and says, "He just didn't want to be that close to Jason's mom!" It's probably true.

As we drove away, there really was a weight lifted off of us. It was so comforting to know that he was finally at rest. It was comforting to know that I didn't have to run all over town talking to my father-in-law's ashes while trying to fix him. I did enjoy his company though, I must admit. I'm kind of going to miss him...

... Monday morning the cemetery calls on my cell phone while we're at the gym.

"Um, the space they put your father-in-law in actually belongs to someone else. We need to move him."

... you're f-ing kidding me. right?...

Off to cemetery I go. Here we are again, me taking care of my father-in-law's ashes all by myself. Is he messing with me? This is just laughable now. I got him in a new spot - not far from where we left him on Saturday morning. The caretaker wasn't there at the time so I was told they would move him in the morning. I went over everything with this woman - the urn is in two pieces, so don't pull it off the shelf thinking it's attached; the golf club moves a little so be careful you don't break it off; make sure the side with the plaque is showing and that the golfer is turned enough that you can see the whole thing. I was so paranoid that they were going to drop him or something. As we were leaving she says to me, "This space is a little more expensive than the other one (I shoot her the you're kidding me look) ... but we won't charge you for it."
...damn right you won't.

Tuesday morning I get a call from the cemetery again. I didn't even want to answer it, but I did. He's moved. He's in his own spot, and he looks beautiful. Thank God!