I'm glad he's proud of me. Really.

I told my Dad about the blog a few days before we met in Miami this past Wednesday. I've realized there's nothing here I wouldn't say to his face. Wednesday night we picked up pre-packaged sushi rolls at the health food store and then ate them sitting on a dock in Coconut Grove. As we ate I asked him, "Was it bad that I didn’t tell you about the blog any sooner?"

He turned toward me and in a stern voice said, "Thank you for bringing that up. I’m very upset with you. You did a bad thing."

Uh oh. "What upset you?"

"You told me about that during a time when I was really busy. I started reading and kept reading for an hour and a half. That was not kind."

Phew.

We were there for a funeral. The woman who’d died was married to my grandfather’s cousin (you had to trace that in your head just now, right?). However, both my Grandfather and Gruff Man were only children and so both were eager to connect with one another; Grandpa spent most holidays with Gruff Man’s family. Dad and I went down with the intention of helping the family clean out the house. But, unlike my Mother’s sprawling, enveloping family (oldest of 10 kids, mostly girls), Frankie’s kids weren’t ready to have more personalities added to the mix. I think they were dealing with enough family tension with just the three of them, so they told us to stay away and just join them for the funeral and dinner on Thursday. Instead of slaving for three days, we had a great vacation.




Thursday morning we checked out Dale Chihuly at the Botanical Garden. The Chihuly website currently features the same show. Their pics are way better than mine!

Here’s my Dad in a hat I bought him in New Orleans. As you can see, I get my shy retiring nature from him.

Being with my Dad is always exciting. He and my brother are alike in this: hate it or love it, time with them is never boring. His Attention Deficit Disorder (or Differently Wired Ability, as I call it) makes life interesting. I drove to avoid needing a stream of, “Dad, the light’s red. Dad. Dad!! Stop!!!” Gentle reminders are rarely heard; by the end of Day One I’m completely in the imperative mode. Since Dad navigated, the running commentary was more like this, “Dad, what’s my next turn? Right or left? Have you figured out where we’re going yet? Look on the back of the map, there’s a listing for museums, look it up there and find it. Should I pull over?”

Of course we got lost on the way to the church and the internment. Fortunately we were five minutes early (which is 35 minutes early for our family). The funeral itself was lovely. Frankie had been 1st cellist for the Miami Symphony and during the funeral music was performed on Frankie’s cello. Now, the fact that neither of us had known Frankie was in the Symphony will tell you that despite the blood tie, we were technically just acquaintances. Therefore, being included for the private internment ceremony was socially awkward. It was in a mausoleum that felt like something out of the twilight zone. Room after room with 20-foot ceilings and looming marble squares from floor to ceiling. Behind each square, a coffin. Temperature controlled. No rotting allowed. We got lost on the way there (see above) and would never have found them if the driver hadn’t come searching for us. Thank God for loud clicky heels!

The good news is that going out to dinner with the family was really fun. We were an eclectic collection of Alpha personalities, so conversation was never dull or lagging! Everyone has a witty, dry sense of humor and great taste in wine. My kind of people.

In the middle of dinner my Dad leans across to my 30-year old Norwegian ‘cousin’. “Have you heard of blogging?”

Oh God, oh God, oh God.

“No?” he continues, “It’s a form of on-line journaling with pictures and text. My daughter writes a fascinating blog. You would probably enjoy it. I’m sure she’ll be writing about her time in Miami and you might want to read it. She’ll give you the address.” He turned to me expectantly. Hey, I’d be happy for her to come here, no problem. But, how can either of us say no? My fear is of boring people with this thing, and now my father is going to inflict it on how many innocent passersby?! I’m sorry, people. You don’t have to do it. You can turn around and walk away, it’s fine!

But, really, I am glad he’s proud of me.