Headed for Littleton this week to tell stories at the Senior Center -- a delightful place I’ve visited many times before. I checked my records to see what stories I’d told last time, so’s not to repeat, and found this one -- a reminder of our morbid Yankee sense of humor and how it sustains us.
The daughter-in-law in this story told it to me:
When my father-in-law was dying, my husband and I came home to care for him those last few weeks. His clothes were pretty tattered, so I went to J.C. Penney to buy him a flannel shirt.
“This is a final sale,” the clerk said.
“I know.”
Later, when Dad succumbed, I called a local florist about flower arrangements for the funeral. He recommended the “Fireside Bouquet.”
“No,” I said. “Dad was a God-fearing man. I’m pretty sure he’s headed in the other direction.”
The daughter-in-law in this story told it to me:
When my father-in-law was dying, my husband and I came home to care for him those last few weeks. His clothes were pretty tattered, so I went to J.C. Penney to buy him a flannel shirt.
“This is a final sale,” the clerk said.
“I know.”
Later, when Dad succumbed, I called a local florist about flower arrangements for the funeral. He recommended the “Fireside Bouquet.”
“No,” I said. “Dad was a God-fearing man. I’m pretty sure he’s headed in the other direction.”
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