My Aunt Jane frequently went on adventures. She’d take drives out on backroads, exploring cemeteries and old churches, and, occasionally, she’d get turned around. She’d make her way home, call me, and tell on herself.
I reminded her always to take her charged cell phone and let someone know where she was going. Though she agreed this was wise, she rarely—if ever—complied, and I’d get the call after the fact. Perhaps she did this out of orneriness to mess with me.
The last time she went on drive-about (to get a favorite tenderloin sandwich from two counties away), she ended up with a $180 speeding ticket (60 in a 25).
She called me the day of the ticket, quite upset, and told on herself. I ignored her comment that they’d finally caught her… we’d have a conversation about speeding another day.
But a week later, we were able to laugh about the incident. “I was so close to home, I almost got away with it.” Jokes on repeat about the most expensive sandwich in Indiana. “You can put this in a book someday.”
I told her I would.
The last few months since her passing have been intense, dealing with what all of us deal with in such situations—the loss, resurgence of memories, funeral homes, cemeteries, and personal belongings. Her one crystal-clear wish was that her last little Boston Terrier’s creamins be put to rest with her.
Wish granted. Top priority.
Things went… sideways for a bit. I believe with my whole heart that my Boston-terrier-loving Aunt Jane went on one—or several—more adventures post-mortem just to mess with me from beyond the veil.
Channeling her inner leprechaun. (I found some pressed four-leaf clovers among her things. As I type this, I’m realizing the possible “divine” significance of laying her to rest on St. Pat’s day…)
Immediately after her death, there was a whirlwind of people telling me things: hospital staff, coroners, the Indiana Donor Network, and the funeral home people. All of them were great—this is not a slam. I swear I think Janie was the orchestrator of the commotion:
I was told where Janie would be and in what order things would happen.
But then… no one seemed to know where she was or where she’d gone at what time. I chalked it up to her passing on the weekend before a major holiday, and no one knew which end was up—or which of the Entities involved had possession of my aunt. Distraught doesn’t begin to describe my mental state over this fiasco. I look at the dog’s little wooden urn on my kitchen table. I must get this dog with that woman and grant this request. Impossible if half of the duo is missing.
“We don’t have her now. She’s been taken from the premises, either by Entity Two or Three,” Entity One told me.
“We received your aunt, but she’s with Entity One,” Entity Two said.
“We thought you knew where she was.” Entity Three sounded confused.
Third time’s a charm, and something inside me snapped. “Well, I certainly don’t have her!” I may have shouted.
The only way to keep from going batty was to picture Janie pulling a Weekend at Bernie’s. My aunt traveled—perhaps unsupervised and without a fully charged cell phone—further and to more locales in the three days after her death than she did to get that $180 tenderloin and visit twelve country cemeteries.
My guess is she also sped.
I could almost hear her, “This would make a good story.”
When someone asked how the arrangements were coming, I could sort of relay this with a smile—to keep from crying—but it was rough.
Eventually, things settled, and her arrangements were carried out. We decided to wait until spring to commit her ashes. The funeral home held her and her beloved dog’s remains until the weather broke. We chose 3/17 to put her in the cemetery; it’s when the calendar worked out for all involved (or a little good orderly direction from above—just to keep things fun).
Then it started again. I got a phone call a few days ago from Entity Four. “I’m looking for Janie.” I clarified that I’m taking care of things for Janie, but she, herself, is quite unreachable. Within hours of this issue being settled (with the paperwork taken care of months ago), Entity Three chimed in. “Do you have her, or do we have her?”
I took a breath and did not shout this time. “I certainly hope you have her. And her little dog, too.”
They did. Have both. Thank goodness. Because I can’t leap from Weekend at Bernie’s to Wizard of Oz and keep this post under 1,000 words.
Now I know Janie’s been messing with me. Giving me story fodder and keeping it light. Yes, Janie, this’ll go in one of my stories someday…
I’m honored to have Janie as my aunt—leprechaun-level mischievousness and all.
And I’m lucky enough to laugh about it.
