Today I went to a funeral in New Jersey for the mother of a friend.   After my mother died, my heart always breaks for a daughter losing a mother.  And when it is a dear friend, the pain is excruciating.  Because daughters and their mothers have bonds that, well, you have to be one to understand.

I arrive at the rental place early this morning and the rental car agent and a customer were comparing menopause symptoms.  After enduring about 5 minutes of this (which seemed more like an hour), I ask if I can get a special discount for being peri-menopausal.  I cannot.  I rent the car anyway.

The car is equipped with NeverLost GPS and, confident in the GPS system, I set out for New Jersey.  It is a 21 minute drive with no traffic, but it IS New Jersey and, as a New Yorker, I must allot an extra hour to navigate New Jersey.  The GPS voice and I are getting along fine.  Smoooooooth.

Then GPS lady tells me I have arrived at my destination and it is a jewelry shop.  Ok, this IS a Jewish event but it is not a wedding and this is not the registry, so this is clearly wrong. New Jersey has stumped the NeverLost lady.  She is now the NeverLost-but-all-bets-are-off-in-New-Jersey lady.  I make a mental note that, at that moment, in that parking lot, in our generation, man triumphed over machine.

I call the funeral home and a man, who must be taught to speak in that Musak voice, gives me directions that a native would understand.  But I am not a native.  I am a foreigner in a foreign state.  It is moving from the State of New Jersey to the State of Agitation.  So, I try to follow the instructions and I go round and round and see some lovely sites.  In fact, I passed the funeral home once without realizing it, on my way to getting lost for yet another time.

I pull into a shopping center and walk into a Whole Foods and inquire at the help counter.  A lovely woman named Sheila googles the address, then calls the funeral home, then tells me some landmarks, walks me out of the store and points to the exact road where I needed to go.  I hug Sheila.  I think she is surprised and thinks she might be starring in a commercial, but no, it is the explosive gratitude of a person who fears that she may never see her family again even though she is just a few miles from the George Washington Bridge.

I arrive at the funeral just in time.  My friend speaks poignantly of her mother and said so many things that resonate for me in my relationship with my mother.  I keep thinking about Joni Mitchell and her stupid, stinking, painted ponies going around on the carousel of time.

My friend talks about being grateful for what was and not being resentful of what will not be.  Very poignant and resonant.  My friend, in her mourning, teaches me a life lesson.  My absurd trip that started out as an effort to comfort a friend and turns out inspiring me.    I leave the funeral feeling upbeat about the life and legacy of my friend’s mother because of the love and humor that poured out in the eulogies.  Only neurotic Jews of a certain generation can use words like “great” to describe a funeral.  You’ll have to trust me that it isn’t ghoulish.  There is something so life-affirming about love and humor amid the tears and the sea of people taking time out of the usual grind to stand in remembrance of person or in support of those she left behind.

Life is eternal and love immortal and death is only a horizon (Carly Simon).

But it WAS schlepic.