A friend of hers died.
As we were getting ready to go to the calling hours, my wife says to me.
“You’re not wearing those jeans and that tee shirt to the calling hours.”
“Why not. The guys dead. Do you really think he cares about what I’m wearing?”
“You’ll embarrass me.” She answered.
“Then we won’t walk in together.” I told her. “You go first. I’ll wait in the car. When you come out. I’ll go in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” We’re going in together. At least wear shoes, and not those dirty, paint stained crocks.” She insisted.
And I was right. The old guy never complained about the way I looked. And neither did the other visitors to his casket.
As we were getting ready to go to the calling hours, my wife says to me.
“You’re not wearing those jeans and that tee shirt to the calling hours.”
“Why not. The guys dead. Do you really think he cares about what I’m wearing?”
“You’ll embarrass me.” She answered.
“Then we won’t walk in together.” I told her. “You go first. I’ll wait in the car. When you come out. I’ll go in.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” We’re going in together. At least wear shoes, and not those dirty, paint stained crocks.” She insisted.
And I was right. The old guy never complained about the way I looked. And neither did the other visitors to his casket.