PAPA WAS A ROLLING STONE: A Funeral Dirge?

This is the story of my first husband's 1998 memorial service in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Funerals are seldom occasions that supply material for comics. Even for the most twisted among us, there is little about a memorial service that is genuinely funny. But seldom does not mean never.

This is the first installment in a 3-part series. It is a true story.

PART ONE

We were married in December, 1966 right out of college--well, I was out, he still had another year to complete. I was 22, he was 20 and we were much too young, okay?!

We knew we were young, so we postponed starting a family for a couple of years to give ourselves a chance to grow up --well, that's what I thought I was doing, anyway. In the meantime, we learned a lot of things about each other that we probably should have learned prior to the big wedding.

For instance, that while we were walking down the aisle in my hometown of Maywood, Illinois, another young woman went into labor in Milwaukee and delivered his first child, a girl, before we even said "I will." Oh, I knew it was going to happen. I had learned about six weeks before our wedding that there was some "girl" walking around pregnant and bad-mouthing me because Brad had dumped her to marry me!

I must have had a problem with my vision back then, because I couldn't see the GIANT RED FLAG waving in front of my eyes well enough to cause me to call a halt to the nuptials. I was too far into the planning and too embarrassed to tell anyone that I was about to marry the biggest butthead in the nation. OMEN #1

We went through with the December wedding and all was well -- well, not exactly well, because I had a case of walking pneumonia on my wedding day, and I tossed my cookies after the rehearsal the night before. That would be OMEN #2.

After that stellar event, we went through a couple of years of child-like wedded bliss: partying almost every night; me paying all the bills while he went to his senior classes; him being extremely possessive and jealous, which I took to mean he loved me. OMEN #3, but I was still an idiot.

We eventually decided that the only thing that would make my husband grow up was to have a family. (Stop screaming at me! I already admitted I was an idiot.) So we went to work. Our first success ended before we even knew we had done it. After a very long and hot (no AC in those days, at least not in my car) road trip, I miscarried. I hadn't yet noticed I was pregnant.

The second time worked and we got our precious son. And it's a good thing, too, because I don't think having another girl was in Brad's plan. He showed up at the hospital, while I was still in labor, with a basketball for the baby.

And then the fun began. Not.

Brad didn't do well with the baby taking "all of my attention from him." He was such a child. Brad, I mean. Anyway, his way of coping was to start screwing around with our dental hygienist. I guess I had been too miserable during the extra two weeks of my pregnancy to really hear the phone call I received from a "friend" apprising me of that little situation. But it soon became painfully obvious that Daddy's heart wasn't in this parenthood thing, and Mommy didn't play the philandering thing. We were divorced just before our son's first birthday.

Oh, the moaning and crying that went on after the papers were served in the middle of the day in his office. He was sorry. He knew I couldn't live without him. (Yes, that's what I meant to write.) He sent his Dad over to tell me how sorry he was. I said, "Yes, I know. He is one sorry..."

I was done. And, with the court's permission, I moved my son and myself back to Illinois to start a new job and a new life.

COMING SOON: PART TWO--A STONE ON A ROLL