God works in mysterious ways and helps those who are way too inept to help themselves.

So my Mom up and dies last Monday, and before the week’s out I find myself co-hosting a wake and a funeral. At 3:00 on Friday afernoon I’m rooting through my suitcase at my sister’s-in-law house looking for my sport jacket … and coming up, uh, decidedly unsporty. It seems I’ve left it in another state, the state of unwearability in the commonwelath of Virginia.

This perplexing situation has a concomitant side effect with an even more perplexing situation in the offing for me on Saturday: no suit for the funeral. Son of a bitch!

After going tres casual for the wake Friday evening, I pick up my brother the following morning, and he asks where I got the suit he spies draped on my person. I tres casually respond, “From a guy at a bar named Fish Dave.” Mike chuckles, and we get in the car. After a few minutes on the road, Mike says, “So, seriously, where’d you get the suit?”

“Seriously, from a guy at a bar. His name is Fish Dave.”

Now this is where potential crow-eating flies into my story. I have a friend who tactfully and occasionally tries to convince me of the existence of the Judeo-Christian god. She will see this as a crow feast opportunity (but will take no pleasure in it, being the Christian woman she is). Before I left town for to see my family and work on funeral arrangements, she assured my that in spite of my beliefs, “God” would provide whenever I encountered challenges.

While we were at the Friday evening calling hours, my wife’s sisters-and-spouses went out for dinner at their favorite dining haunt. The restaurant has this tradition of naming its specialties after its regulars. My brother-in-law Mike has a sandwich or salad or something named after him, for instance.