Pardes Chaim Cemetery

By Jeezus, I swear this field was planted with soybeans the last time I was this far up Bathurst a couple years ago.

Now it's the Pardes Chaim Cemetery, Uncle Murray's final resting place.

Don't know why he picked this place. Coulda been a couple miles over at the Pardes Shalom with Uncles Frank and Henry and a bunch of the others. At least over there the shade trees make shade. Here the "shade trees" are an inch in diameter and about six feet high.

And he's buried amongst a bunch of Russians. Not that there's anything wrong with that. A Jew is a Jew I suppose, and far be it for me, a token goy around here, to pass judgement.

Still, it all seems a bit incongruous. First I thought, well, Murray knew the value of a dollar, and he's saved a bit on shade trees to leave a bit more for the heirs.

Then I checked the Pardes Chaim website. Seems they're owned by the same outfit that runs Pardes Shalom, and as far as I could tell the prices were the same.

That's got to be a good gig, cemetery management. I would think it's the quiet side of property management. Not a lot of loud parties to deal with.

But I digress.

Nobody saw me step out of the car and touch my forehead to the ground. God only knows what scandal that would have unleashed. Bad enough to be the token Goy.

That "kiss the earth" deal might have marked me as a secret toweller.

This family has suffered enough, and even though they put up with me, I'm not certain they could put up with that.

Let me explain.

I had the honor of bringing the wife of the deceased down to Toronto from Owen Sound. That is an honor. Little did she realize she'd be riding down in my Subaru Impreza.

For those readers who don't know, that's what's commonly known as a "compact" car.

Very compact.

And it wasn't just Aunt Flo I was taking to Toronto. Junior and the Farm Manager and the Bubbinator had to get there too.

Great! Four Jews in a Subaru with me driving.

Now this may seem simple enough on the face of it, but let me explain. This Subaru is a recent acquisition. Not only that, but it's a really small car. Not that small when I'm driving it alone, but by God, when you pile four passengers in, it gets small fast.

Let me further explain the logistics of the trip.

I'm not saying Aunt Flo is large, but she's a bit larger than the svelte self I've seen in her wedding pictures. In short, if Auntie Flo is making this trip, she ain't riding in the back.

That of course leaves Junior, the Farm Manager, and the Bubbinator to share the back seat.

Now, none of them are "large" large, but none of them are midgets either.

So we were packed in there pretty tight.

Another thing about Aunt Flo, she's an old-school girl. She's an old-school Jewish broad who is loud and proud and if you don't like it... well, just get out of her way.

She also has old-school habits when it comes to putting on perfume.

In Flo's world, if a little dab'll do ya, a good splash will do ya way longer.

So Flo was perfumed up pretty good by the time we got to her apartment.

We head down the highway for Pardes Chaim. Thank God the air-conditioning is working like a charm.

First thing Flo does is relocate my coffee into a different cup-holder, better to make room I suppose. As we pull away from her building the coffee topples onto my lap.

She's sorry. I'm sorry too. Let's not worry about it...

Ten miles out of town the air conditioning starts blowing warm. This is not good. We've got 150 miles to go.

Ten miles after that I notice the temperature gage on the Subaru is heading for the sky.

Oh-oh.

I've mentioned that the Subaru was a recent addition to the family fleet. I'd noticed before that it has a habit of randomly overheating.

But please, God, not now!

I'm in the hills between Markdale and Chatsworth, the temp gage peaking and then settling down and then peaking again...

I've got a vision of me standing beside the road with Aunt Flo and the Bubbinator and the rest of them, thumbs out, hoping to get a ride the rest of the way to Murray's funeral...

That would pretty much ensure me a place in the Schmuck Hall of Shame.

Never mind the Hall of Shame; I'd be the schmuckiest schmuck who ever beschmucked the planet!

To say the rest of the trip was pins and needles is the least of it.

"Would you like some grapes and cheese?" Aunt Flo would ask.

I'm 150% focused on the temperature gage.

No thank you.

Aunt Flo must have asked me two dozen times if I'd like some grapes and cheese...

No.

Thank you!

Miracle beyond miracles, we made it to Pardes Chaim, whereupon the folks already present were amused to see just how many people could disembark a tiny Subaru.

Ya folks, have your chuckle, but you don't even know the quarter of it!

Which is why I kissed the ground.

But no matter. On this hottest day of the year in a cemetery with no shade, having just arrived in a car with no air conditioning, a hot wind suddenly blew up.

Just as I was attempting to secure a kippa on my head.

Now the Farm Manager's folks aren't over-the-top religious, but they do don the kippas on occasions such as this. How do you keep a kippa on in a 30k gust?

They were trying it all around me. Paper clips. Bobby pins.

I was struggling till bro-in-law Ben says, hey, you're not a Jew anyway, just take the damn thing off!

Easy for him to say. I notice he's not having any trouble keeping his kippa on in a torrential gust... probably because he's got a piece of carpet tape between that near-bald pate and his kippa.

Anyway, after chasing the kippa down in the wind-swept former soy-fields a couple times, I finally put it in my back pocket and made it to the grave side. Half the guys there had their kippas in their back pockets.

I've been to a few funerals in my time. I have to say Cantor Silverberg pulled off one of those deals where you walk away saying that was just right. Not something that happens at every funeral.

And the Farm Manager delivered a eulogy that was at once over the sky and very much down to earth.

Nice send-off, Uncle Murray!