A Funeral Fraught With Fisticuffs

My father's side of the family locally has always been considered a bit volatile. Others would say, "Crazy-ass hot heads," but we feel that the dogs bark, but the caravan moves on.

Once upon a time there were six siblings - my uncles and an aunt. The two oldest and the youngest have departed. Most recently the third oldest died and his funeral is today's subject. He was 83, had been in ill health for some time and lived in a nursing home. It was still a shock to his immediate family - a wife and four adult sons.

The deceased, married to his first wife for easily 20 years, if not more, had the four boys. They divorced and he re-married. Rather suddenly. I can still remember how people came over to our apartment after our wedding (27 years ago - the cast was that much younger than today and considerably friskier.) His first wife was gracious in our living room; his bride-to-be sat on his lap in the balcony off the kitchen kissing him fervently. This wife eventually became something of the Evil Stepmother to his sons. In the beginning, the sons were civil, welcomed the couple into their homes and life was relatively peaceful.

And then Daddy had to be hospitalize and the doctors told his wife that he would fare better in a physical rehab facility. He didn't. So the doctors said he would do best in a nursing home. And there he stayed.

His wife realized that he would never return to their house, so she sold it and all its contents without bothering to tell her husband until after the fact or to offer his sons a chance to pick out any meaningful trinkets.

That started the war. Two of the boys are spitting mad that she sold the sabre they'd bought him at West Point (the two of them had attended West Point.) Another was insulted by being greeted thusly as he approached his father's hospital room - "What are YOU doing here?" Yet another wanted to bring his new wife to the Christmas celebrations and was told by his stepmother, "That might be a little awkward; we're hosting your ex-wife.

The above alone is a good reason to expect trouble, but then throw this in. The deceased's brother hates me. He and his wife and their kids and myself had all been on close terms for 40 years until he committed an act of treachery that I couldn't forgive and I have not seen nor spoken to them in seven years.

He doesn't hate me personally; he hates that someone got in his face, described to him exactly what he is and then dismissed him. He's a bully with a Texas-sized ego. He's also the owner of .9mm handgun.

It should be an interesting funeral. If I survive, I'll write about it. The least would be that someone gets spitted at; the worst, shot. Bring it on! I'm one of this family, too, and forget it at your peril! My mouth is as good as a gun.