Kohl and the Gang

“If LSU were playing the North Koreans, I’d root for the North Koreans.”  — Reuben Leonard Chrestman, III (Ole Miss fan)

The college football rivalry between Ole Miss and LSU dates back to the 19th century.  It has had its share of twists, turns, ebbs and flows.  The rivalry is chock full of entertaining stories. The Chrestman family, I believe, is one of those stories.

It would be normal for any New Orleanian to root for LSU, despite not having gone there, except that I come from a long line of Ole Miss faithful. My dad – Reuben Leonard Chrestman, III -went to Ole Miss. His dad – Reuben Leonard Chrestman, II – went to Ole Miss.  My grandmother served as the “house mother” for an Ole Miss sorority.  My oldest sister went to Ole Miss, and I grew up going to Oxford regularly. That I did not end up going to Ole Miss was one of the many ways I have been a profound disappointment to my parents.

My enthusiasm for LSU and Reuben’s enthusiasm for Ole Miss have grown inversely proportional over several years as LSU has enjoyed a period of elite play with a BCS national championship as recent as 2007.  Ole Miss, meanwhile, has languished in relative mediocrity, and the last time it won a national title, John F. Kennedy was still in office.

My father’s transition has been depressing. I recall the days when a younger, more energetic Reuben would stand up the whole game, hold a football and oftentimes yell profanities.   “Like taking candy from a motherfucking baby,” Reuben would scream when Ole Miss was scored on. Or “David Cutcliffe couldn’t spell defense, much less coach one,” he would frequently lament.  He was pissed off, but he was passionate. Now, Reuben sits in a relative haze as Ole Miss squanders another lead or loses another disastrous game they should have won. The game will end, Reuben will sit there for a few moments of silence and then slowly stand up.  There’s no more screaming.  There’s no more profanity.  There’s no more fire.

“That’s a bad team,” he will say  calmly as he ascends the stairs to retire for the evening.

Meanwhile,  my allegiance to LSU remained quiet for most of my life, but as I get older and somehow become more of a jack ass, I become increasingly obnoxious as an LSU fan.   That Ole Miss has had LSU’s number the last few years has not slowed me down.  The latest iteration of LSU jackassery has come to be called “Operation Black Bear.”

Reuby Ann (Reuben plus Mary Ann = “Reuby Ann”) asked me to watch their house this past week as they vacationed in celebration of Reuben’s 71st birthday. This was a decision they would come to regret. I did not really think much of it at first.  But when I realized that I would have unsupervised custody of their abode just days before the annual LSU-Ole Miss football game, Operation Black Bear was born.

They had a fun-filled week in Natchez, Mississippi doing what the elderly do on vacation – go to antique stores, dine out and go to antique stores.  Even though I am a reasonably-intelligent 36-year-old man/boy that somehow made it through law school and the United States Marine Corps, my dad handed me a detailed instruction manual as if taking out their trash and taking in their mail required a degree in astrophysics.

“The usual rates apply,” my dad told me as he handed me his keys along with overly-detailed and overly-complicated instructions. (The “usual rates,” by the way are zero).

Operation Black Bear was, thus, a completely unsolicited redecoration of the interior of their home.

Were I to have all the time in the world and unlimited resources, I would have found a way to procure as many banners, wallpaper, cardboard cutouts and fatheads of this picture of interim LSU coach Ed Orgeron triumphantly entering Tiger Stadium atop Mike the Tiger.

But resources were limited and time was of the essence, so I relied on generous donations of paraphernalia from neighbors and friends alike.  There was a giant inflatable tiger, along with other Tiger essentials, in their dining room:

There were also more subtle pieces.  Cute pictures of grandkids like this:

Were replaced with pictures like this:

And this:

Additionally, should Reuby Ann ever wonder what time it is, they need only consult none other than Ed Orgeron:

After the decorations were complete, the hour of Reuby Ann’s return home finally arrived:

Mary Ann found the inflatables and other decorations to be funny.  When she discovered that Coach O had replaced her precious grandchildren, however, she was not amused.  Not amused at all.

Reuben’s assessment was a bit more vague.  Ever the man of few words, he did offer some choice ones, but mostly took it all in silence, in much the same way he has handled the perpetual defeat of his beloved Ole Miss Rebels – er- Black Bears.  It is difficult to tell whether he was amused or is actively plotting ways to stab me in the chest.  Could be both.

Operation Black Bear, by most measures, was a success.  Like any covert operation, however, a certain degree of risk is inherent.  Had LSU lost the game, this would have blown up in my face and been profoundly embarrassing. But as I learned in the Marine Corps, nothing good can ever result from your being a pussy.

Reuben continued to give me the silent treatment.  He claimed he would not watch the game because “Leonard Fournette will rush for 200 yards.”

So, after the game, I extended him an olive branch:

Me: Dad, you were wrong about Leonard Fournette rushing for 200 yards.  He actually had 285.

Dad: That’s a bad team.  We will lose at least two more games.

Me: Well, I think you’re wrong about that.

Dad: Well,I don’t think you know shit about college football.

Mission Accomplished.

 

 

Meet my parents – Reuben and Mary Ann Chrestman (Reuby Ann).  Both are 70 years young.  They are in their blissful golden years, where every second matters, and quality time with one another is among one of life’s most precious things.

Their latest attempt at quality time was a one-day fishing trip. Reuby Ann was to charter a boat with the same fishing guide we have used for over twenty-five years.  (For you grammarians out there, “Reuby Ann” is a singular person, like “Brangelina” or “Bennifer”). Mary Ann had never been out with this guide before, and it was an early birthday present for Reuben who will reach his 71st year this month. It was going to be so perfect: A nice, quiet Monday surrounded by the picturesque marshes of south Louisiana, where they would take in the scenery, catch some fish and quietly enjoy each other’s company.

But it was not to be.  Their hopes and dreams came crashing down when I – their youngest child – caught wind of the trip and decided to invite myself to tag along.  It was like a perfect train wreck.   A toddler that ruins a rare date night for an exhausted mom and dad.  Except I’m not a toddler, at least not physically.

Once Reuben accepted the fact that an uninvited third party would be tagging along, the planning began in earnest.

Reuby Ann likes to plan.  And Reuben, despite being a highly intelligent and respected physician, struggles with the simple things.  For Reuben, making dinner reservations is like planning the Normandy invasion.  Dealing with parking more than one block from his destination like splitting the atom.

So, having to deal with an uninvited third party on his fishing trip became very overwhelming. His frustration was palpable.

For a trip planned for a Monday, I received a somewhat frantic phone call from Reuben the preceding Friday who was clearly stressing out over Monday’s menu:

Dad: Mom is going to make some PB&Js for the trip Monday, do you want some?

Me: Is water wet?  Of course I want some PB&Js

Dad: Okay, mom will fix you two PB&Js.

Me: Two?  What is this, communist China?

Dad: It’s cost containment, ass hole.  [CLICK]

And so it began.

After a busy weekend of “festivaling” and children’s birthday parties, Monday morning arrived.  The place we would launch from, according to Google maps, was one hour and seven minutes away.  According to “Reuble maps,” however, it was an hour and forty-five minutes.  I would not fight that battle as there would soon be ample opportunities to argue with and annoy Reuben throughout the course of the day. So 5:45 am was the reluctantly-agreed-upon pick up time.

By the time Reuby Ann arrived, the caffeine was already coursing through my veins.  As I stepped into my chariot, I couldn’t help but notice that there were two fishing poles taking up an inordinate amount of space in the car.  I thought this was odd since we were chartering a boat with all equipment supplied. “What’s with the two poles,” I asked.

“One for me, one for mom,” Reuben replied.  “You’re on your own.”

The subsequent one hour and seven minute ride was nothing if not eventful. During the first few minutes, I was peppered with questions from Mary Ann.  Besides being a highly-inquisitive person, she has trouble hearing. Reuben’s official diagnosis for her is “CHS,” which is the medical acronym for “can’t hear shit.”

Thus, her “curiosity” paired with an inability to hear, sprinkled with a stubborn and consistent refusal to wear her hearing aids was a recipe for numerous questions.  Her questions ran the gamut from detailed interrogations about the goings-on of my weekend, to pontifications on how much of a genius she thinks my two-year-old daughter is to condescending remarks about my wardrobe choice that particular day.

In between each question Mary Ann asked, one could hear Reuben keeping tabs by quietly counting each one  Invariably, the little bugger does not hear my initial answer.  And each “what”  was included in Reuben’s count:

Mom: So did ya’ll have fun this weekend? What did ya’ll do?

[Dad: one, two]

Me: We did.  Had a few birthday parties to go to.

Mom: What?

[Dad: three]

Me: BIRTHDAY PARTIES.  THAT’S WHAT WE DID.  WE HAD FUN.

You get the picture. Mary Ann’s direct examination was no more than three to five minutes, but the final count came to 18 questions total.  She has some skills.

We then proceeded to cover a range of issues and solve many of the world’s problems, including my wife Sarah’s car troubles:

Me: Sarah’s car battery is dead

Dad: Are you going to call AAA?

Me: Probably so

Mom: She will probably need a new battery

Dad: Thank you, Mary Ann Mechanic, for your diagnosis

Me: Yeah, thanks for weighing in on that, mom, I didn’t know you dabbled in auto repair

Dad: She dabbles in just about fucking everything

There was a discussion of wardrobe, specifically, the stylish hat my mom brought and Reuben opining that she had emphasized form over function (something she is often wont to do):

Dad (to mom): That hat is not going to do shit to keep the sun out of your eyes

Mom: It has a big bill

Dad: Well, Andy has a big nose, and that hasn’t helped him

We addressed politics:

Me: Are ya’ll going to watch the presidential debate tonight?

Mom: [rare silence caused by not hearing the question]

Dad: There isn’t enough alcohol in the state of Louisiana to get me to watch that shit

After touching on auto repair, sartorial choices and politics, we arrived at our destination.  Reuble maps grossly overestimated the time it would take to get there, and we arrived several minutes early, even before our fishing guide – the famed Nash Roberts, IV. (If you’re in south Louisiana and want to go fishing, do yourself a favor and go with Nash.  Just do it).

I was approximately 10 years old when we first went out with Nash, and we have been fishing with him ever since.  According to Reuben, however, there was a bit of a hiatus after the first excursion because “Nash had to have four years of therapy after being exposed to you.”

We are experiencing an unusually hot fall down here in south Louisiana, so we had to keep the trip short because Reuby Ann, having had several birthdays, are particularly susceptible to the heat.  The trip, as a result, only lasted about four hours. But those four hours were precious.

My time was divided between catching fish of a size and quality far exceeding the ones caught by Reuben and eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches made with a mother’s love.

Mary Ann’s time involved catching a handful of brag-worthy fish and refusing to be photographed due to the outfit that, in her opinion, made her “look like a boy.”  Although notoriously wary of being on video, Reuby Ann was good enough to offer some harmless shit-talking:

 

Reuben’s time was spent catching tiny fish, the majority of which had to be returned to the water, which is arguably more insulting than catching no fish at all.  For me, it provided ample opportunities for comedy:

Nash:  [attempting to make Reuben feel better about his tiny fish] I wish that had about five more inches

Me: That’s what Sarah tells me all the time

Dad: I could have gone the rest of the day without hearing that shit

Mom: I thought I raised you better than that

Naturally, Reuben’s frustration with me grew as the day wore on.  I spent the majority of boat rides from fishing hole to fishing hole sitting next to Mary Ann, but then decided to mix it up and grace Reuben with my presence:

Dad: [7/10 of a second after I sat next to him] Go sit next to mom

Me: I think she’s had enough of me

Dad: She’s had enough of you, I’ve had enough of you, even Nash has had enough of you. [turning to Nash] Is there an island nearby where we can just leave him?

After avoiding being left for dead on an island marsh, the day concluded and we headed home for the day. When asked if they were glad that I invited myself, Mary Ann admitted that she did enjoy my company.  But what of Reuben’s review of my presence?

“No, I’m not glad,” he said.  “You raised the serum jack ass level.”

The elderly are, in many ways, like children.  As they age, they become more dependent on others for survival; they have no appreciation or understanding of the comedy inherent in some of the outlandish things they say and do; and occasionally, they shit themselves.

Time with Reuby Ann is time cherished.  And if crashing their fishing trip was wrong, then I don’t want to be right.

Dear Abbie (the dog),

Yesterday, you took your last breath in this world.  Because of that scourge of the Earth we call cancer, you were taken from us after ten short years.  That’s human years because according to the chart in the veterinarian’s office, you were considered “geriatric” by dog standards.  I found that funny because up until the cancer that infiltrated your body left you with little energy over the last few weeks, you were the polar opposite of geriatric.

You were young at heart.  Even as an “old” lady, your disposition remained very similar to when you were a puppy.  You knew to never let old age get in the way of your vigorous enjoyment of life.  That was one of your lessons. The first two to three minutes that a new visitor stumbled into Chateau du Chrestman were among the most exciting moments of your life.  Like most dogs, the highlight of your day was going on your daily excursions in the park.  You lived for swimming and I almost lost you in the City Park lagoons twice.  You were kind of a bitch to other female dogs, but you were friendly with all male dogs and you would always get along with other golden retrievers.   I guess that made you the dog version of kind of racist?  Then again, maybe not because you loved all humans unconditionally.  That was another of your lessons.

You were there since the beginning.  You were there even before Sarah entered the picture.  You evacuated with me during Hurricane Katrina, proved your unusually high tolerance for pain at obedience school and were my only companion when I lived in that post-Katrina house with the downstairs gutted.  When Sarah came in, you harbored your own version of resentment which manifested by you eating a lot her belongings.  At first, I thought it was just you being a golden puppy – chewed up shirts, jewelry and other of her accoutrements.  But then you singled out her prized red shoes out of many other pairs to choose from, and you destroyed them.  Yet, you came around eventually and accepted this new person in our lives.  You could not have been more gentle when our tiny humans suddenly appeared.  Amelia loved to wave at you, feed you numerous table scraps, hug you and sometimes tug at various parts of your face in a somewhat violent manner.  Thanks for not biting her or ever snapping at her.  You were such a gentle soul.

And when it came down to the end of your life, you went in your own way.  We were supposed to have an appointment with an oncologist today to see about getting you chemotherapy.  But fuck that shit, you said.  You embraced life and you enjoyed every moment.  You never got preoccupied with the past or worried about the future.  You just loved this moment.  And that was perhaps your most important lesson.

I love you, Abbie girl.  You’ll always be my special, furry golden mound of joy.  We all miss you and look forward to seeing you again some day.  Say hello to Allison and Aunt Cynthia for me.

Love,

Your Human

 

P.S. Dear cancer and the year 2015, fuck both of you.