We learned how cemeteries heat frozen ground so they can dig holes and bury people in the winter. We learned that ashes are interred inside non-biodegradable containers about the size and shape of a small picnic cooler. (In a pinch, one could presumably be filled with ice and drinks and taken to the beach.) We learned that, in the otherwise revolting town of Clio, there's a homey restaurant with good food and reasonable prices that isn't owned by a company based in Texas, that's worth a return visit on our next cemetery outing. We learned that, even in the place rated Michigan's third worst small city, one can still find, on Craigslist, someone who will give you a ride to a funeral and expect nothing in return.
We also learned that the churches, charities, and social welfare agencies whose declared purpose is to spread the love in America's 1,109th best small
city do a mighty piss-poor job. Actually, they spread it very well, only the stuff they spread isn't what one thinks of when the word "love" comes to mind. It's what one thinks of when the word "bullshit" comes to mind.
With the notable exception of two people associated with the Council on Aging, everyone at every church, charity and social welfare agency in St. Clair County to whom I directed queries re transportation to my last living family member's funeral either dodged the issue for as long as they could before saying "no, we don't do that," or said without asking or calling around, "no, we don't do that."
It's easier to make friends than enemies, and here was an excellent opportunity to make a friend, or maybe a convert to a particular brand of organized religion. Here came someone who DIDN'T have his hand out (I offered to cover all expenses on the journey to Flint and back), someone who was receiving an inheritance, who -- or so I thought -- would be seen by the greedy bastards who run and work for every church, charity and social welfare agency in the county as someone who might want to do some spreading of his own -- with the green stuff -- at whatever church / charity / SWA helped solve the need.
Everyone, with the exception of the two, chose to make an enemy.
So: in this paragraph comes what You The Reader may have been waiting for, the FUCK YOU that has been in the back of my mind and on the tip of my tongue ever since the search for transportation began. I have in fact compiled a list of the FUCK YOUs, to make things easier for You The Reader who may be keeping score at home:
The St. Clair County Council on Aging (minus the two exceptions, but You The Reader really should give them a few bucks so they can buy more bandwidth, since surfing the Net on the Council servers burns resources --
St. Edward On The Lake Catholic Church, Lakeport
The Unity Church of Blue Water, Port Huron
Michigan 2-1-1
Operation Transformation of St. Clair County
The Lions Clubs of Port Huron, and the Fraternal Order Of Eagles, Blue Water Aerie 3702, for being such greasy, repulsive Good People that, even at a time of desperation, they weren't worth calling
The United Way of St. Clair County, for enabling everyone on this list
AND . . . a special shout-out to the most useless bastards of them all: the bell-ringing, red kettle polishing, sermonizing, drum-pounding, horn-tooting, tambourine-shaking, goody two-shoes Sunday morning Christians at the Salvation Army. After the Red Shoes Incident, I should have known better, but after a lifetime of brainwashing I still bought into their culture of bullshit. I'll still buy their books (hardcovers 3 / $1, paperbacks 4 / $1), and give them stuff because without transportation the collection box in Lakeport is my only option, but other than that, the biggest, loudest, reddest FUCK YOU on the list goes to Little Miss Sally Ann.
I won't be needing transportation to any more funerals. The next one I go to will be mine, and I'm sure I'll get a ride there. However, the stories taken from ordinary day-to-day life in America's 1,109th best small city don't end here. Au contraire . . . as Karen Carpenter said a long time ago, right before dashing to the ladies' room to throw up her breakfast: we've only just begun.
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