The glimmer of good to be found in us all

“Old folks get scared when somebody dies, so at Brookdale Senior Living, we hold brief memorials to honor our residents who’ve passed on. Okay if Chaplain Steve rings you for information about Mr. Durwood?” a friendly lady asked me in a thick Southern accent.

“Of course,” I said, apprehensive about what Brookdale residents thought of my cantankerous, opinionated father who had passed away unexpectedly. After a sudden health decline left him unable to live independently, I’d helped Dad sell his house and move into an apartment at Brookdale in March.

When I called him during the few months he had lived at the friendly facility that served homemade fried chicken on Tuesdays, held Friday happy hours, and Wednesday men’s lunches with police and firemen, you would’ve thought I’d abandoned him in a Turkish prison.

“This place is horrible!” he’d bellow during our conversations. And, “They never change my sheets!” or, “You’ve gotta get me outta here!” and, “The food is terrible!” and during one call at the end, “You put me in two rooms to die!”

I’d heard about elderly parents laying guilt trips on relatives designated to help them, and told myself that Dad was simply depressed and taking it out on me.

After all, we’d had a complicated relationship ever since he left my mother for a younger woman when I was 30. I was devastated and shed many tears over what I saw as our shattered family foundation.

As the decades passed, my brother and I, and our respective families, experienced a few ups and many downs with Dad. By the time he passed, his anger and negativity had alienated many of his family members.

After some phone tag, Chaplain Steve called. He asked questions about Dad’s past, his work and hobbies, what made him proud, and how he’d like to be remembered. Memorial services are meant to recognize good things about the dead. So, I scaled the blockade of anxiety-inducing thoughts of my father, and stepped into long-forgotten positive memories of Dad.

“What three words would you use to describe Mr. Durwood?” Chaplain Steve inquired at the end of our call.

After delicate thought, I answered, “Larger than life.”

Two days later, the memorial service was held at Brookdale in a common room where weekly movies and chair aerobics took place. I’d flown in to clean out my father’s apartment, so I attended the service with my aunt and cousin.

We sat in the back and watched a dozen or so elderly women file in, each with a wheelchair or walker. “Miss Phyllis, sit right there,” a staff woman directed, making room for more that were headed down the hallway.

“Standing room only,” my cousin whispered with a grin.

“Yeah,” I giggled, “only, nobody can stand.”

“We’re here today to honor William Durwood Smith, Jr.,” Chaplain Steve began next to a portrait of Dad from his younger days.

Suddenly, a large old man sitting in the open double doorway yelled toward noises coming from down the hall, “Hey! Close your door! There’s a memorial service going on in here!” During a Psalm reading, the old man interrupted again, “Close your door!” When the racket continued, the man suddenly jumped to his feet and blasted angrily, “GOD DAMMIT! I said CLOSE THAT DOOR!”

“SECURITY!” shouted a staff member, quickly restraining the furious old man. The elderly ladies appeared scared and confused.

Eventually, Chaplain Steve restored order and relayed the good things I’d told him about Dad — his youth at Fork Union Military Academy, his football scholarship to college, his business career, Dad’s many golf, hunting and poker buddies. His loud, brash, irreverent personality. The family he loved (despite not always showing it). Listening to Chaplain Steve recount Dad’s positive accomplishments and attributes felt like the closure I didn’t know I needed.

A tiny old Italian woman called me over as I was leaving.

“If I was 50 years younger,” she smiled mischievously and winked, pointing to the portrait of my father as a young man, “I’d have made a move on him.”

As I walked back down the hall to Dad’s empty apartment, I chuckled and mumbled to myself, “Dad would’ve thought his service was perfect.”

Read more at themeatandpotatoesoflife.com and in Lisa’s book, “The Meat and Potatoes of Life: My True Lit Com.” Email: meatandpotatoesoflife@gmail.com