End Of Watch Call

 When cops retire, or worse, die in the line of duty, there's a tradition. The dispatcher calls their unit, and there is silence, and then the retiring cop (or friend of the deceased one), replies "End of Watch for (Fill in the Name). Yesterday, for one of my life's duties, I reached that milestone.

I made MUCH fun of my late suegros, Richard and Rachel. They survived the Holocaust, and lived strong, productive lives, but suffered the effects expected in being slaves, facing death, and worst of all, having most of your family killed because of their identity. I never forgot their origin stories, even when their behaviors which caused strife among my family reached absurd levels.

There are more than enough examples to fill a memoir, but the silliest and therefore most telling happened in 1994, after we moved back into our Hurricane Andrew repaired house. We had bought my suegros' house and lived there for a year and a half, and decided to keep it as a rental property -- a decision that ultimately cost us six figures of money since we became friends with Rabbi Yossi and Nechama. Ha. Worth every charitable penny.

But the house needed a paint job, and Richard offered to do it -- he had painted the place 10 years before. But now, he was 70, post a quadruple bypass, and my brother in law Dennis asked me if I was crazy -- he would likely fall off a ladder, or die of another heart attack doing the job in our tropical heat. I agreed, and hired a painter to do the job. Back then, I think the total cost $2000.

When I told Richard, he freaked. But HE vas going to do it! I apologized for going back on the "deal," but pointed out it was just simpler and safer to have a professional painter knock out the job. 

Richard stopped talking to me. For over a year, as I believe. He would only visit when I was at work, which at that time, luckily, was much of the time. And, he would "Take nothing from him (me)." If he was thirsty, he would go outside our house and drink from the hose -- as if in some way water from the outside spigot was NOT his evil son in law's water.

So there was family strife, and finally he forgave me for this awful trespass of trying to keep him alive. And life went on -- to even bigger and more absurd bouts of broigus, the transliteration for family feuds.

Still -- Wifey was an only child, and I took my responsibilities to support and care for her parents very seriously. We bought them a condo in Pembroke Pines, and later, when Richard was diagnosed with Alzheimer's Disease, Wifey took over their affairs, under my guidance, as Wifey never became a financial planner, like I am, in a lay way. We moved Richard into Miami Jewish Home, where he lived out his final 5 years, When he died, we moved Rachel to a condo close to us, and provided her daily care, until the time came for her to move to an ALF -- we picked the closer Palace, where she lived out her final years (many of them) in comfort.

I helped Wifey get Richard's funeral done, and Rachel's last June. Eleven months later, it was time for the unveiling of the gravestone, which I pestered Wifey repeatedly to complete. I knew it was the final act for my in laws -- who wanted traditional Jewish funerals and follow up.

Yesterday came the day. We met the Ds in the peaceful Kendall cemetery right next to the Palmetto. I had brought a towel, and jumped out and covered the stone marker. I brought rocks from our house, and printed out a lovely paragraph one says when the marker is unveiled. I sent Wifey and the Ds the Mourners Kaddish, and Psalm 23.

We could have had Rabbi Yossi officiate, but Wifey wanted things kept very simple -- hence -- just my in-laws child and 2 granddaughters. We said Kaddish and I recited the Psalm. We placed the stones, and each spoke to Rachel.

We acknowledged Richard, too, of course. I told him I knew things were quiet from 2016 until 2022, when his besheret joined him in the Hereafter, but his soul was now at rest with his life partner.

The four of us drove to Bagel Emporium across from UM and had lunch. We told some Sabta stories -- the Ds thanking her for being such a loving grandmother and bringing tremendous amounts of laughter to us -- often unknowingly. She was no "background Sabta," as Wifey said.

And on the way home, I wiped my hands, in the comical way a gravedigger does to get the dirt off of them. Mission accomplished. The final act I had sworn to myself to complete, for Wifey's parents, was completed.

For that now gone generation from WW II, I had reached my end of watch. May their memories be blessings.