One-mile Farby

Farby was a decent guy. Lost both of his parents to cancer when he was still in his teens.

Mom went first. When Dad went a year and a half later, I rode in the car with him up to the funeral home in Elmira. Elmira was the home of the Uniroyal pant that made the Agent Orange that the USAF dropped all over south Asia back in the day. Also poisoned the Elmira water in perpetuity, but that's another story.

One-mile Farby got the one-mile nick-name because he'd lost his driver's license twice within a mile of his house. Farby lived in Guelph just off Woodlawn Road East. First time he lost his license he was proceeding east on Woodlawn and just kept going where the road stopped. Cops found him passed out behind the wheel down an embankment, just before where the sports fields are today.

Farby hadn't been to court for that episode when he had another one. Heading home late at night he runs into the back of a police cruiser that's part of a drunk-driving check on Woodlawn. He has the misfortune of going before the judge on both counts of drunk driving at the same time.

The judge peruses the paperwork, looks up, and says, they must call you the one-mile man. Both these charges happened within a mile of your domicile. It stuck. He was one-mile Farby forever after.

So Daddy dies and I'm in the '68 Chrysler 300 that Farb is driving to the funeral home. He's pissed. It's normally a 15 or 20 minute drive to Elmira. Farby announces he's gonna let 'er rip. "Gonna keep two wheels in the gravel just so I know where the road is" he says.

440 four-barrel tears up the Elmira Road at 100 miles an hour. Two wheels on the shoulder because Farby doesn't know where the road is. I'm in the back. I know certain death is imminent so I curl up on the floor in the back. Five minutes later we're at the outskirts of Elmira, just before the Uniroyal plant. Farb turns into the cemetary. Various bottles are hidden behind tombstones. There's flashing red lights coming up the cemetary road.

While four or five long-hairs are randomly relieving themselves here and there Farb explains to the officer that we're heading to the funeral home. The cop says take 'er easy, we collect the bottles and continue on our way.

Five greasy long-hairs stroll into the funeral home in motorcycle boots and denim jackets. We're doing the sign of the cross and all that voodoo stuff because we know that's what you do when you pay your last respects. One of the lads leans forward and looks in the box.

Hey, that's not him.

What?

That's not your Dad.

Shit! It's one of these funeral homes where they have multiple visitations at the same time. We're at the wrong visitation!

Found the right room. Paid our respects. Funerals are a dull business, but that was one of the better ones I've been to.

Thanks Farby!