06/19/03’s illustrious band:

The Toot-Toot Family Restaurant

Brought to you by my late grandmother, Marie Pauline Wiemholt, to whom we bid farewell this past Friday.

The exploits of Grandma Wiemholt and her clan were the true genesis of Band Name of the Day. It was in the summer of 2001, after a visit with Mom to Grandma in their hometown of Boonville, MO, that I began telling the stories behind the amusing phrases I picked up. That trip provided me with several anecdotes that remain favorites, including Wienador, Wrong Cemetery, Bury St. Joseph, Aunt Mary’s Dire Prediction, and Homemade Teeth. (These don’t appear in the current BND archives, but if you want to see them, let me know.)

Granny also gave me a reason to start a photo gallery on my old website, and many of the pictures are still there (address available upon request). These include family Christmas gatherings, the riverboat casino she liked to frequent, the apartment she briefly shared with her boyfriend Charlie, and the Caribbean cruise the two of them took together before her health and spirits began to slip. Granny photos were always the most fun to caption because she’s usually doing (or wearing) something silly, and more likely than not getting others to join in.

Our gathering in Boonville to say good-bye to Grandma was a sad, but not too sad, occasion. She had passed quickly -- a quick cardiac arrest while getting ready for bed -- and she didn't have time to suffer or be afraid. So despite missing her, we’re happy that she got her wish to join Grandpa in Heaven. There was plenty of laughter among the tears -- and, since it was a gathering of Wiemholts, plenty of cookies and ice cream, too.

Which reminds me of where I got the name for today’s illustrious band. On our drive to Missouri, Sister-san and I spotted several enormous billboards for the Toot-Toot Family Restaurant. Truth in advertising? Or just an unfortunate choice of words? We got a laugh out of it, and I know that Grandma, never one to pass up a toot joke, would have, too.

The funeral was very properly done, including an automobile procession from the funeral home to the church, which is kitty-corner across the street. Grandma's group of ladies, the Daughters of Isabella, conducted prayers and provided a just-right luncheon in the church basement after the rites. I was introduced to numerous relatives I've never met and several I have, people with names like Boopie and Hoppy and Linna Lou, who all knew me from photos and my parents’ annual Christmas letter.

The two funeral directors, who conducted everything with respectful dignity, appeared to be about 23 years old -- young enough to be wearing a thumb ring apiece and having trouble growing muttonchop sideburns like my uncle Don's. I've always thought of funeral direction as an old man's profession, but I suppose old men have to come from somewhere.

At the cemetery, I learned that while the Wiemholt family owns a generous plot, Grandpa declined to be buried in it when he died; he figured there might be other relatives who wanted to use the space, and he didn't want to hog it. So he and now Grandma are in another corner of the graveyard from the family plot, modest in death as in life.

I’ll miss my Granny and her funny stories and gossip, but I’ll keep the shared desire to pass along silly little things that amuse me. She started something good when she lent herself to this world, and I don’t see an end in sight.

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