"He's doing what?"

My husband Rob repeats himself, unfazed at my outburst. He's casually dropped the latest gossip as we linger over our Sunday paper and coffee, streams of warm sunlight filtering through the bay window in our little condo in Sherman Oaks, California.

Rob leans back in his chair and stretches out his long legs as he lazily turns another page of the paper. "He's decided to move her to Texas. He and Fanny want their past and present families to be together."

I'm constantly amazed at what Rob's dad will come up with next. Rob's family has a history of loony activity but this time they're going above and beyond. "How will they know if they're together or not?" I ask. "They'll all be dead! You've been telling me for years how your mother planned her funeral down to the last pink rose. How do you think she's going to feel about this sudden cross country journey?"

"Well," Rob grins over the cartoon page of the L.A. Times, "as you yourself pointed out, Emma, she's dead."

I'll admit he's got me on that one. Although Rob's mother died long before we even met, the stories he's told me brim over with the fact that his mother never wanted to leave California, and how she hadn't left anything undecided when death finally necessitated that she did. I refuse to believe whatever part of her spirit happens to be floating around in the great beyond is going to be very happy about being shipped off to Texas--even post mortem! Especially so she can be buried in some military cemetery with Rob's dad Rob Sr. and his second wife, Fanny.

I tried to make sense of this logic, and then I remembered that Fanny's husband was a military man, as was Rob's dad. (That's if you call maintaining and fueling airplanes military, which I guess you can since no one seems to have questioned it when they applied for membership in the new military cemetery in Arlington, Texas.) At least Fanny's husband actually saw some action in Germany, even if it was only the clean up. Rob's dad never got any closer than London--still a pretty big leap for a country boy from Paducah, Kentucky. Bottom line though, he never really "fought" in WWII.

Anyway, Fanny decided to move 'the Mr.' over to this new cemetery, and Fanny's daughter May convinced Rob Sr. he should move Lois out to Texas too, so they could all be buried there. Not that they're actually going to be buried together, mind you--according to Rob the plots are probably a mile away from each other. But at least they'll all be in the same hallowed ground, in the hallowed Lone Star State. I've never heard anything like it--in life, fiction, or the movies.

"You know how Dad feels about having someone look out for them, keep flowers on the graves and stuff," Rob muses between sips of his morning coffee.

"But they'll be dead. What does it matter who looks out for them?" Irritation creeps into my voice, and I know part of it has nothing to do with all this--except for the fact that Rob happens to be a pushover when it comes to anything his dad asks him to do. But beyond that, I have my own set of moving worries to think about.

"It's that old school way of thinking." Rob interrupts my thoughts as he neatly folds his Sunday paper and reaches lazily for the pot to pour himself another cup of java. "Old people like knowing someone's going to visit their grave."

"Oh, for Pete's sake."

"Well, it's true."

"I'm sure it is true. But what about your mother and the funeral she planned for herself and the idea that she was just where she wanted to be with all the things she wanted around her? And even if that wasn't the case, he's driving her to Texas in his pickup? Is that even legal? Not to mention he'll have Fanny, his number two wife on board? Don't you think your mother might be just a little annoyed about that?"

With a sheepish look, Rob picks up another section of the newspaper. "You just said she's dead, so what does it matter?"

He's right. Really, what does it matter? Except for the fact that once again, everyone is catering to Rob Sr. But like I said, I have my own set of pressing problems at the moment. I take my cup to the sink and rinse it, my reflection in the glass reminding me once again that I'm not wrinkle-free anymore and it's time to get my daily exercise in. Brushing a wisp of short blonde hair behind my ear, I frown at the state of me, even as I stare out on another sunny Southern California day.