I may not be online, but it seems appropriate that this last story should be shared on the anniversary of my father’s death. Therefore, I’m scheduling it to be published on the morning of April 15. For the purposes of this story I am giving my father an alias: Bernie McGillicuddy.
After my father died, Sofie, my stepmother, went to a great deal of trouble getting him a nice headstone. She was worried about it, and with good reason since no one could ever say McGillicuddy let alone spell it. She checked and double-checked that the stone cutters had it right.
Months went by. I’m not sure why anymore, but there were a lot of delays. It wasn’t until the following Christmas that she got the call saying the stone had been finished and installed. She was so happy. She called and told me she was going to the cemetery to see it. She called me again about an hour later.
“Oh, Gringa! You will never believe what I’m seeing here!”
“What is it, Sofie?” I asked with real concern.
“It’s your father’s headstone. They made it wrong. They spelled his name wrong!”
“What? After all the times you spelled it for them?”
“No, you don’t understand. The stone says ‘Berrie McGillicuddy’…”
Yes. They got the last name right, but they misspelled Bernie. Dad would have thought that was hysterical. I can almost hear him laughing.