Can You Hear This?

Not long after we moved into our current home, Beau and I made a discovery regarding our new alarm system. I have had security systems in the past but this is the first time the smoke detectors were wired into the security monitoring system. Apparently, these new detectors are designed to raise an alarm if anything occurs within the dwelling that might in any way be indicative of the slightest possibility of smoke or a fire. I mean, they are sensitive. At this point, I never know if the fire department might show up if I burn candles on the dining room table or if I walk too close to the detector while running a fever.

In addition to their extreme sensitivity, they are wired directly into the the fire response system. Basically, you don’t want to have anything that resembles a false alarm. If something sets it off by mistake, too bad, the normal time to disarm the alarm is reduced to about 3 seconds. If you’re not “johnny on the spot” entering the code, you do not get to cancel. It’s like in Monopoly when you draw that card that says, Go to Jail—go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200. Actually, in our area, false alarms can result in fines of several hundred dollars too.

Now, I realize this is done on purpose for the sake of peoples’ safety but there needs to be a backup plan for those times when a few stray crumbs in the toaster can send off the faint scent of smoke or Beau has decided to play chef.

Our first false alarm was when he decided to make crepes for a project in his French class. We hadn’t been in the house very long and I was unfamiliar with the way the system worked. The firemen arrived completed with sirens and flashing lights only to find me standing on the front porch with an apology. They were kind and understanding and explained that there was very little time allowed for de-activating the alarm once it’s been set off as they don’t want to run the risk of someone being overcome by smoke while trying to deactivate the alarm.

The second time they arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing, I was saved the embarrassment of another false alarm explanation. Beau, however, was not. I had gone to my office on a recent Saturday morning to meet with some clients. I had asked Beau to do the honors of preparing Doggie’s breakfast. I explained how to prepare it and off I went. About 30 minutes into my meeting with my clients, my cell phone rings—caller id says “Home”. I answer not to the sound of Beau’s voice but to the ear-piercing shrill of the security alarm going off. My clients, having teenages of their own, could hear the alarm from across the room and immediately grasped what was going on. (They found it humorous the way folks do when teenage antics are being performed by some teenager other than their own!)

Beau had apparently not realized that bacon grease will smoke quickly if left on high heat for more than a minute. The firemen arrived to determine that there was no damage other than the “thick as pea soup” fog of smoke filling the kitchen. The fireman carefully explained the dangers of smoke inhallation. Their recommendation: ventilate the room by opening all the doors and windows on the first floor. Their parting suggestion: for Beau to resign from his temporary positon as dog chef.

Funerals in the South are an event. More often than not, it’s like attending a family reunion or a party—with everyone wearing “church” clothes. Funeral food is some of the best southern cooking you can get. The commitment to making that perfect “funeral” dish and delivering it to the bereaved is a hallmark of great Southern cooks. (The really savvy ones deliver their creation in a dish that already has their name afixed to the side with masking tape to ensure the bereaved don’t have to worry about which dish belongs to which cook when it’s time to return them.)
In addition to providing the family with wonderful food, everyone takes time to tell those closest to the deceased some anecdote involving their dearly departed. Depending on just how eccentric or crazy the deceased had been, the stories can elicit a chuckle or have the entire company rolling in the floor laughing hysterically while tears flow down their faces.

In the case of the following obituary, the deceased told his own story. Apparently, he wrote it himself a few months prior to his unexpected death as the result of a car crash. I know his wife. She’s a formidable woman of high stature in the community. Despite the surprise of many of us who know her, she followed her husband’s wishes and sent his obituary to the local paper to be printed just as he wrote it. Talk about having the ultimate last word. This is it!
The paper *censored* some parts of the original text. Otherwise, the following is just as it was printed:

Frederic Arthur (Fred) Clark

Fred, who had tired of reading obituaries noting other’s courageous battles with this or that disease, wanted it known that he lost his battle as a result of an automobile accident on June 18, 2006. True to Fred’s personal style, his final hours were spent joking with medical personnel while he whimpered, cussed, begged for narcotics and bargained with God to look over his wife and kids. He loved his family. His heart beat faster when his wife of 37 years Alice Rennie Clark entered the room and saddened a little when she left. His legacy was the good works performed by his sons, Frederic Arthur Clark III and Andrew Douglas Clark MD, PhD., along with Andy’s wife, Sara Morgan Clark. Fred’s back straightened and chest puffed out when he heard the Star Spangled Banner and his eyes teared when he heard Amazing Grace. He wouldn’t abide self important tight *censored*. Always an interested observer of politics, particularly what the process does to its participants, he was amused by politician’s outrage when we lie to them and amazed at what the voters would tolerate. His final wishes were “throw the bums out and don’t elect lawyers” (though it seems to make little difference). During his life he excelled at mediocrity. He loved to hear and tell jokes, especially short ones due to his limited attention span. He had a life long love affair with bacon, butter, cigars and bourbon. You always knew what Fred was thinking much to the dismay of his friend and family. His sons said of Fred, “he was often wrong, but never in doubt”. When his family was asked what they remembered about Fred, they fondly recalled how Fred never peed in the shower - on purpose. He died at MCV Hospital and sadly was deprived of his final wish which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a double date to include his wife, Rush Limbaugh and Ann Coulter to crash an ACLU cocktail party. In lieu of flowers, Fred asks that you make a sizable purchase at your local ABC store or Virginia winery (please, nothing French - the *censored*) and get rip roaring drunk at home with someone you love or hope to make love to. Word of caution though, don’t go out in public to drink because of the alcohol related laws our elected officials have passed due to their inexplicable terror at the sight of a MADD lobbyist and overwhelming compulsion to meddle in our lives. No funeral or service is planned. However, a party will be held to celebrate Fred’s life. It will be held in Midlothian, Va. Email fredsmemory@yahoo.com for more information. Fred’s ashes will be fired from his favorite cannon at a private party on the Great Wicomico River where he had a home for 25 years. Additionally, all of Fred’s friend (sic) will be asked to gather in a phone booth, to be designated in the future, to have a drink and wonder, “Fred who?”
Published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch on 7/9/2006.