Many fine San Franciscans knew the awsomeness of my grandfather, the late, great Bob “Da” Spotswood, but few keep his torch aflame with the loyalty of Man on the Inside. MOI and I share a love of tradition, so much so that we’ve taken to visiting Da occasionally and celebrating with occasional dinners at Da’s favorite hangouts, primarily Liverpool Lil’s and the House of Prime Rib.
Going to the cemetery doesn’t do much for me. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a familiar name on a wall and that’s it. But when our visits there are cloaked in mystery, I can’t help but want in on the hot Colma action at Holy Cross. MOI swung by the cemetery this weekend in honor of Veteran’s Day and called me to report that the bandit had struck again.
It seems MOI isn’t the only one maintaining my grandparent’s final resting place. Someone known only as “The Fake Flower Bandit” has taken to adorning the space with tacky monstrosities we find appalling. Complicating matters, MOI suspects a woman. Interestingly, MOI’s widowed grandmother and my widowed Da enjoyed their twilight years together, going on cruises and paying sticker price for new cars. Da was a hot commodity at the time: a 6’2” former cop with a full head of hair and a pension, and MOI is concerned someone’s moving in on his grandmother’s territory. I share his concerns. I mean, at first I thought it was some do-gooder going around throwing crap on stranger’s graves, but the Fake Flower Bandit focuses their crap on MY grandparents.
MOI rapidly disposes of said crap, but the FFB continues to irk him. This Saturday, he removed yet another array of blue roses or similar and replaced it with fresh flowers and an American flag. (I know, I know. MOI might mock me mercilessly and keep me from Gavin, but he’s clearly worth it.) Calling me from his post-cemetery, Costco shopping excursion, MOI was none too pleased.
“Seriously. This is pissing me off.”
“Maybe they do this for everyone?”
“Clearly not, Beth.”
“Well, we should have a stakeout on major holidays.”
“I thought of that. They don’t come on holidays. I’m always there on holidays and their crap is appears to have been out for weeks already.”
“So, what’s your big plan? We’re going to hide out in my car on random Tuesdays, waiting for some vixen in a red dress to appear?”
“All I’m saying is, this isn’t over.”
Fair enough. I’m dying to know the identity of the FFB anyway. Based upon their taste in flowers, I'll be able to spot this Lillian Vernon addict a mile away...