While I wished I could have stayed overnight at my parents house, I knew I would have to leave not long after the funeral. I would have to return to work the next day. Staying and then driving back in the morning would just be too much of a task. Before I left though, Mom, Dad and I went out to grab a bite of supper.
We drove into my hometown. It has changed a lot over the years and, of course, it seems it has changed most since I moved away. Once there, we drove to a restaurant we had patronized many times before because despite some change being so obvious there are some things which do not change, especially when it comes to eating places my parents frequent. We ordered and soon thereafter ate, briefly catching up on each other’s lives since the last time we had been able to do so. As the afternoon crept up on the evening, we returned to Mom and Dad’s house.
I stayed a few minutes longer than I planned to stay, lingering as I often do at this place especially when I know I should be on the road. I knew I had to get home, there waited my wife and there waited other obligations and commitments. Still, I lingered, seeing family I rarely see anymore made questions and feelings about them bubble up inside. As I continued to linger, I felt a slight pull inside me, a pull that seemed to tell me that somehow part of me is here, that part of me is always here and when I leave here, part of me stays behind. Despite that pull, despite the questions and feelings, I eventually hugged Mom and Dad goodbye. I walked the concrete walkway in front of the house that has been there longer than I can remember, got into my car and pulled away, still with many questions and feelings unresolved.
Alone on the drive home, with the radio turned down, I spent some time thinking. As I weaved deep into the mountains down a serpentine road, the late autumn wind melded with the shadows of the hills and the approaching nighttime and it all seemed to become one with my thoughts. I had spent a whirlwind day with family. We gathered to lament a loved one. We shared some time together in one of the most raw, real moments life can hand any family. Now, away from the events of the day, away from the seriousness of the day, I chuckled at some of the things I observed, surmising only my family could make me smile and shake my head over certain things.
Memories inside me stirred like dust in a windstorm. I reached out beyond my memory’s outstretched arms to try to reign in names and times long forgotten. I wondered about things I didn’t know anything about as it relates to my family, things stashed away in our collective past, hidden on purpose or just forgotten for a spell.
My mind drifted back to some yesterdays ago. I revisited cold well water, my grandparent’s kitchen table, a piano my aunts would let me pound away on when we visited on Sunday afternoons and an organ I only dared to view from a distance. I remembered walks to the top of the mountain for apples, the dipping ladle at the pond, the tractor my grandfather used until he was no longer able to walk and cane-bottomed chairs propped against the wall. I recalled hog killings on the coldest day of winter, the smell of tobacco hanging in the barn, my grandmother’s butter churn, lots and lots of flowers springing from the ground and even an outhouse we used before indoor plumbing. All these things raced through my mind as if it were only yesterday.
Beyond all that, I longed to hear the laughter of my cousins, the jokes of my aunts and uncles and the common-sense and learned lessons gained from years of living a simple life that my grandparents could share. I ached to just go back for a bit to that time, that place, those people. I wanted to know again, I wanted to really appreciate just one last time, how life was before the time when I began to understanding how harsh life can become from time to time, like when one of our own dies.
As I neared home, I glanced in the rearview mirror. For a moment, my eyes locked in on my reflection. I realized then any questions burning in my mind would stay there for now, unanswered. I quickly let that thought escape my mind. I scrambled back to thoughts of the day’s events. I couldn’t help but begin to wonder again. Why does life turns out as it does? Why do we turn out the way we do? How can we be related by blood and be so much alike? How can we be related by blood and be so different? Why does being around these people make me consider so many of these things?
As my car’s headlights hit our street, I felt that pull inside me that I felt at my Mom and Dad’s house except this time it was pulling me on into our driveway. It pulled me in because part of me is here even when I am away. It was the end of the trip and it was time to put the day behind me.
I found myself wishing I had answers to all the questions the day had created. The questions though seem to outnumber any answers I discover and just spawn more questions. I know though I can’t really answer the questions for anyone else but myself. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to answer for anyone else anyway. Besides, this was just one side of my family, there’s a whole other family out there that also spent some time and effort shaping me into whoever I am. All these things do not keep me from speculating though. It doesn’t keep those questions and other questions from popping up from time to time, especially when trying to better understand why things turn out as they do, why I have turned out the way I have.
Although all the puzzle pieces don’t yet fit, I know enough to understand that no matter where I go, no matter what I do in life, I’m never very far away from that time, that place, those people, those yesterdays ago. I have come to realize I can’t get the red north Georgia clay off the bottom of my bare feet. I know I can’t stop my family’s blood from running through my veins, even if I wanted to try, because at the end of the road, at the end of the day, at the end of it all, my family is who they are. And, I am who I am.
6.24.2009
6.17.2009
We Are Who We Are, Part 3
The afternoon sun spilled gold rays all over the place. My Dad and I sat in my car waiting to pull out of the funeral home parking lot and into the processional to the gravesite. My Mom, tired from the day’s activities, had gone back home with other family members. Dad and I had determined to go on to the cemetery for the gravesite service.
Sitting there, headlights on, I realized one of the things I miss about living in a small town. When I come back for a funeral and the procession actually makes it’s way down a road, people still pull over to the side of the road and wait there until the last car in the procession goes by. It is a simple gesture, unspoken yet understood, that speaks volumes about how life and time are valued here. It is also just one small way people know they can show they are thinking of you when they know life is wearing you down.
As we drove the few miles from the funeral home to the cemetery, every car I could see ahead had pulled off the road. It was well into the afternoon by this time, so there was plenty of traffic, school traffic, work traffic, yet all of them stopped for a couple of minutes to pay respects to a man and his family they very likely did not know. They just do that here.
Soon, to our right we saw a carpet of green grass punctuated with marble headstones dotting the rolling hills. We were at the cemetery. There, just over a hill within a rock’s throw from an old white-frame country church building stood a green funeral home tent with it’s spindly legs staked into the ground. As we walked the short distance from the car and toward the gravesite we could see family members milling all over the graveyard. As Dad and I neared the tent, the most obvious thing there was the enormous hole that had been dug in the ground under the tent. Above that hole rested the coffin holding my uncle.
The funeral directors tried rounding up those gathered to get this part of the service started although doing so was like trying to capture and bottle the wind with a butterfly net. A few family members sat down in the chairs under the tent. Some stood just outside the tent while still others were still wandering around in the cemetery. More words were spoken by the ministers. I noted to myself how the phrase ‘dust to dust’ carries a weightier meaning when you can actually reach down to the ground and sift some actual dirt between your fingers.
Since my uncle was a veteran, military were present to complete the service. A gun was stuck in the ground just outside the tent near the head of the grave with a helmet placed on the butt of the gun and dog tags hanging over the helmet. My uncle’s service in the military was recited to those who gathered.
Veterans stood behind the tent and at an appropriate time, raised guns into the air and fired in honor of one of their own, now through with the battles of his life. I watched the men lift their guns against the blue sky and fire away, thankful for the service of such brave men and women, service that secures our freedom to this very moment. The sound of the shots split the quiet of the graveyard and seemed loud enough to rouse those who had rested here for many years. By contrast, family and friends watched quietly. If possible, we all grew even quieter when “Taps” was played, a sad and lone melody escaping into the wide open blue sky.
The flag that had draped my uncle’s casket was then removed and folded. As the flag was folded, a veteran told us what the flag and it’s colors and each fold represented to the veteran. After it was folded, it was given to one of my cousins, who choked on tears as it was handed to him. It took me back to when I was a child and would see this take place, I thought then that the veterans were actually wrapping up their fellow veteran’s heart in the flag and giving it to the family. As I watched my cousin accept the flag for the family, I briefly traveled back to that childhood understanding and thought how at this moment it might as well have been my cousin’s own heart wrapped there in that flag he clutched in his hands as he seemed to be drowning in grief.
Another veteran had gathered the shells that had been shot moments earlier and placed them in a bag. He told us that these shells would be presented to the family at the next military funeral. Another bag of shells was then produced, shells which had been discharged at the last military funeral these men had attended. These shells were presented to my uncle’s family, creating a chain connecting brave men and women to one another and to their families.
The funeral directors were ready to lower my uncle and his casket in the ground. Funeral directors everywhere seem to want those gathered at the grave to leave then; I suppose to spare even more grief. Family and friends did begin to disperse some. I wondered briefly if anyone here would behave like my great uncle had at my grandfather’s funeral. Since my grandfather was my great uncle’s brother, my great uncle would not leave the cemetery until he watched the funeral directors actually lower my grandfather’s casket into the ground and cover it with dirt. I didn’t see anyone headed down that road which brought me a sigh of relief.
The service was over. I spoke with some family and friends and tried speaking one final time to my cousins who had just lost their father. For an instant, I lost track of my Dad. It did not take me long to notice him though. He was tracking down each veteran who had come to the gravesite and had participated in the funeral service. He stopped each veteran, shook hands with them and thanked them for their service and their time on this day. It was another small gesture lost in the overwhelming digest of larger things that I know I will always carry with me.
Dad finished making his rounds. As we left, we did walk a bit further into the cemetery and looked at some of the graves and tombstones, many dating back into the 1800s. I recalled to him the last time I had been in this particular cemetery was for the funeral of a great uncle, my grandmother’s brother, several years prior to this moment. To me, it was another reminder of how the roots of a family tree spread as deep and wide as the roots of the giant oak trees that have snuggled the church house for many years.
We drove away from the churchyard toward Mom and Dad’s house. My Dad, a quiet man, offered very little in the way of deep conversation and I, also a quiet man, provided very little in the way of deep conversation back. I did wonder though what was going through his mind. Was it the same thing that was running the halls of my mind? Was it about the end of life? Was it about times he and his brother had spent together? Was it about family? Was it about how in families, some of us turn out okay and others turn out not as okay? Was it about the choices we make in life and how those choices, good and bad, follow us down every path we take in life? Was it about the realization that we are who we are no matter who we think we are or who we try to be?
To be continued…
Sitting there, headlights on, I realized one of the things I miss about living in a small town. When I come back for a funeral and the procession actually makes it’s way down a road, people still pull over to the side of the road and wait there until the last car in the procession goes by. It is a simple gesture, unspoken yet understood, that speaks volumes about how life and time are valued here. It is also just one small way people know they can show they are thinking of you when they know life is wearing you down.
As we drove the few miles from the funeral home to the cemetery, every car I could see ahead had pulled off the road. It was well into the afternoon by this time, so there was plenty of traffic, school traffic, work traffic, yet all of them stopped for a couple of minutes to pay respects to a man and his family they very likely did not know. They just do that here.
Soon, to our right we saw a carpet of green grass punctuated with marble headstones dotting the rolling hills. We were at the cemetery. There, just over a hill within a rock’s throw from an old white-frame country church building stood a green funeral home tent with it’s spindly legs staked into the ground. As we walked the short distance from the car and toward the gravesite we could see family members milling all over the graveyard. As Dad and I neared the tent, the most obvious thing there was the enormous hole that had been dug in the ground under the tent. Above that hole rested the coffin holding my uncle.
The funeral directors tried rounding up those gathered to get this part of the service started although doing so was like trying to capture and bottle the wind with a butterfly net. A few family members sat down in the chairs under the tent. Some stood just outside the tent while still others were still wandering around in the cemetery. More words were spoken by the ministers. I noted to myself how the phrase ‘dust to dust’ carries a weightier meaning when you can actually reach down to the ground and sift some actual dirt between your fingers.
Since my uncle was a veteran, military were present to complete the service. A gun was stuck in the ground just outside the tent near the head of the grave with a helmet placed on the butt of the gun and dog tags hanging over the helmet. My uncle’s service in the military was recited to those who gathered.
Veterans stood behind the tent and at an appropriate time, raised guns into the air and fired in honor of one of their own, now through with the battles of his life. I watched the men lift their guns against the blue sky and fire away, thankful for the service of such brave men and women, service that secures our freedom to this very moment. The sound of the shots split the quiet of the graveyard and seemed loud enough to rouse those who had rested here for many years. By contrast, family and friends watched quietly. If possible, we all grew even quieter when “Taps” was played, a sad and lone melody escaping into the wide open blue sky.
The flag that had draped my uncle’s casket was then removed and folded. As the flag was folded, a veteran told us what the flag and it’s colors and each fold represented to the veteran. After it was folded, it was given to one of my cousins, who choked on tears as it was handed to him. It took me back to when I was a child and would see this take place, I thought then that the veterans were actually wrapping up their fellow veteran’s heart in the flag and giving it to the family. As I watched my cousin accept the flag for the family, I briefly traveled back to that childhood understanding and thought how at this moment it might as well have been my cousin’s own heart wrapped there in that flag he clutched in his hands as he seemed to be drowning in grief.
Another veteran had gathered the shells that had been shot moments earlier and placed them in a bag. He told us that these shells would be presented to the family at the next military funeral. Another bag of shells was then produced, shells which had been discharged at the last military funeral these men had attended. These shells were presented to my uncle’s family, creating a chain connecting brave men and women to one another and to their families.
The funeral directors were ready to lower my uncle and his casket in the ground. Funeral directors everywhere seem to want those gathered at the grave to leave then; I suppose to spare even more grief. Family and friends did begin to disperse some. I wondered briefly if anyone here would behave like my great uncle had at my grandfather’s funeral. Since my grandfather was my great uncle’s brother, my great uncle would not leave the cemetery until he watched the funeral directors actually lower my grandfather’s casket into the ground and cover it with dirt. I didn’t see anyone headed down that road which brought me a sigh of relief.
The service was over. I spoke with some family and friends and tried speaking one final time to my cousins who had just lost their father. For an instant, I lost track of my Dad. It did not take me long to notice him though. He was tracking down each veteran who had come to the gravesite and had participated in the funeral service. He stopped each veteran, shook hands with them and thanked them for their service and their time on this day. It was another small gesture lost in the overwhelming digest of larger things that I know I will always carry with me.
Dad finished making his rounds. As we left, we did walk a bit further into the cemetery and looked at some of the graves and tombstones, many dating back into the 1800s. I recalled to him the last time I had been in this particular cemetery was for the funeral of a great uncle, my grandmother’s brother, several years prior to this moment. To me, it was another reminder of how the roots of a family tree spread as deep and wide as the roots of the giant oak trees that have snuggled the church house for many years.
We drove away from the churchyard toward Mom and Dad’s house. My Dad, a quiet man, offered very little in the way of deep conversation and I, also a quiet man, provided very little in the way of deep conversation back. I did wonder though what was going through his mind. Was it the same thing that was running the halls of my mind? Was it about the end of life? Was it about times he and his brother had spent together? Was it about family? Was it about how in families, some of us turn out okay and others turn out not as okay? Was it about the choices we make in life and how those choices, good and bad, follow us down every path we take in life? Was it about the realization that we are who we are no matter who we think we are or who we try to be?
To be continued…
6.10.2009
We Are Who We Are, Part 2
On a warm afternoon this past fall, many of my family members gathered in a room in a funeral home in my hometown. We were there to grieve over the loss of my uncle. As the funeral time neared, those who wished made one last visit to the casket. As this ritual progressed, some said a few final words to my uncle, some fought back tears, some stoically passed by without a word or a tear, some stood in the shadows as if to say, without saying anything, they were at a loss to know what to do or say at a time such as this. A prayer was offered at some point during these moments, a petition to the God who gives and takes away, today taking away an uncle, yet, giving us time together as family. After we made this last trek, we stepped out of the room into a hallway where we waited for the processional into the chapel. As we crowded into the hallway, the doors behind us closed and when they were closed shut, a feeling snuck down the hallway that you just knew the casket behind that door was also being shut on my uncle, shut never to be opened again.
In the crowded hallway, we jockeyed for a place to sit or stand while the funeral directors began corralling pallbearers and family for the beginning of the funeral. As I stood beside my parents I noticed a young woman near us bawling her eyes out and loudly crying, yet at the same time wrestling with her cell phone. I imagined she was texting someone in the midst of everything going on, although I shuddered to think that someone so consumed with sorrow could care enough at that very instant to let someone somewhere know the funeral has almost started or that a ringtone couldn’t wait for another download time or that whatever was going on in that phone could not wait a few minutes.
Soon, we were filing into the chapel. I thought to myself as we entered how our society seems to loathe ceremony. It was nice though to note how some people still honor certain ceremony as those who came to the funeral stood as our family marched in and remained standing while my uncle was rolled into the chapel. Sad though to think, we think so little of offering respect to anyone while they are alive that this brief moment of respect at a funeral can make such an impression. I tried not to even think about how maybe some were just standing because everyone else was standing or that some just stood because all they know is that is what is done at this part of a funeral.
I sat at the end of a pew with my Mom and Dad to my right and on the right side of the chapel. We were a few pews from the front. I had earlier met one of the ministers chosen for the funeral. My mother seemed sure I knew him but I could not remember him. I had asked him earlier if he was the father of an old classmate of mine and he said no and he then mentioned his son’s name. I recognized his son as someone a year or so older than me. I remembered his son as a not-so-happy young man years ago. This gentleman then informed me his son would also be handling part of the service later. While I have been away from my hometown for nearly two decades I still know the families and names from my childhood because that’s just the way things are there, you knew who was who and how everyone was connected. It dawned on me that if his son was who I was thinking he was then I could not imagine the young man I recall being the kind of man who would be a minister as he became older. Later while reflecting on the day, this made me realize one of life’s truisms…our memories often stand still while life moves on and changes us and the people and things around us. This leaves us stuck in the past so we often fail to catch up with the way things have become, the way things really are now.
The older gentleman spoke some words. He talked how he was in retirement but had promised my family he would speak at my uncle’s funeral. He was near my uncle’s age and talked some about knowing my uncle most of his life. He relayed some information about my uncle’s time in the service and later when he returned from World War II. After a time, he went to sit down and gave way for his son. As his son stood, my Mom realizing the funeral wasn’t over yet and getting a bit restless, said under her breath, ‘oh, there’s another one’. To me, she said this loud enough that I thought everyone in the chapel heard this although I’m sure few if any really did hear this. The older man’s son stood at the podium and I recognized him as who I thought he was despite the age we both had accumulated. He provided words of comfort as well and even talked about how he had done some things in his own life he wasn’t proud of doing and related that to the uneven life my uncle had lived.
Of course, one can’t help but think about mortality at such a time. What lies ahead after death? I have my own ideas. I spent some time thinking about those things for a moment or two, quietly taking inventory on the things that trip me up and the things that lift me up from time to time. Death and funerals have that way of reminding one how human we are despite any bravado we may chase after life day to day.
As we sat there, words of comfort ringing in our ears, tears flowing, some family members rose to sing a couple of songs. Raw, powerful voices mingled with the notes from a piano offering words that called for a better day, a day when the pain from the present world ceased. Without warning, during one of the songs, one of my cousins sitting directly behind me let out a scream of overwhelming grief. I, despite being quiet and reserved, probably jumped a bit as it seemed she had screamed directly in my ear. I look back and chuckle some at this but only with the understanding that we celebrate and grieve in different ways, some cannot hold their feelings in, while others can, neither is necessarily right or wrong, just different.
We sat there as a family, gathered together only for a funeral, just like the last time we had all gathered together, at some other family funeral. I looked up a few pews to my cousins, the children of my deceased uncle. They looked as if a speeding train had smashed their lives. I couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead for them, knowing how they haven’t always gotten along with one another, wondering how this loss would cloud their lives in the time ahead. I glanced around at other family members. I spotted one relative who had chosen to come to this occasion in his San Francisco 49er jacket, liberated no doubt from the years of nagging his wife had given him over the clothes he wore everywhere. Some family members were crying uncontrollably. Others held up, strong for those who needed a sturdy shoulder to lean against. Behind the strong eyes I wondered how deep the hurt ran, how fresh was the wound. There we were, the smell of hairspray on big hair collided with cologne and perfume and cigarettes and a touch of body odor as the service ended.
We are who we are…messed-up, mixed-up, emotional, strong, silent, educated, street-smart, hopeless, confident, fashion plates in polyester, cotton, denim, orange jumpsuits provided by the county and even in the finest in sports team apparel. At the end of the day, we are who we are and at this moment, we stand together at the end of the road waiting to take one of our own to his final resting place.
To be continued…
In the crowded hallway, we jockeyed for a place to sit or stand while the funeral directors began corralling pallbearers and family for the beginning of the funeral. As I stood beside my parents I noticed a young woman near us bawling her eyes out and loudly crying, yet at the same time wrestling with her cell phone. I imagined she was texting someone in the midst of everything going on, although I shuddered to think that someone so consumed with sorrow could care enough at that very instant to let someone somewhere know the funeral has almost started or that a ringtone couldn’t wait for another download time or that whatever was going on in that phone could not wait a few minutes.
Soon, we were filing into the chapel. I thought to myself as we entered how our society seems to loathe ceremony. It was nice though to note how some people still honor certain ceremony as those who came to the funeral stood as our family marched in and remained standing while my uncle was rolled into the chapel. Sad though to think, we think so little of offering respect to anyone while they are alive that this brief moment of respect at a funeral can make such an impression. I tried not to even think about how maybe some were just standing because everyone else was standing or that some just stood because all they know is that is what is done at this part of a funeral.
I sat at the end of a pew with my Mom and Dad to my right and on the right side of the chapel. We were a few pews from the front. I had earlier met one of the ministers chosen for the funeral. My mother seemed sure I knew him but I could not remember him. I had asked him earlier if he was the father of an old classmate of mine and he said no and he then mentioned his son’s name. I recognized his son as someone a year or so older than me. I remembered his son as a not-so-happy young man years ago. This gentleman then informed me his son would also be handling part of the service later. While I have been away from my hometown for nearly two decades I still know the families and names from my childhood because that’s just the way things are there, you knew who was who and how everyone was connected. It dawned on me that if his son was who I was thinking he was then I could not imagine the young man I recall being the kind of man who would be a minister as he became older. Later while reflecting on the day, this made me realize one of life’s truisms…our memories often stand still while life moves on and changes us and the people and things around us. This leaves us stuck in the past so we often fail to catch up with the way things have become, the way things really are now.
The older gentleman spoke some words. He talked how he was in retirement but had promised my family he would speak at my uncle’s funeral. He was near my uncle’s age and talked some about knowing my uncle most of his life. He relayed some information about my uncle’s time in the service and later when he returned from World War II. After a time, he went to sit down and gave way for his son. As his son stood, my Mom realizing the funeral wasn’t over yet and getting a bit restless, said under her breath, ‘oh, there’s another one’. To me, she said this loud enough that I thought everyone in the chapel heard this although I’m sure few if any really did hear this. The older man’s son stood at the podium and I recognized him as who I thought he was despite the age we both had accumulated. He provided words of comfort as well and even talked about how he had done some things in his own life he wasn’t proud of doing and related that to the uneven life my uncle had lived.
Of course, one can’t help but think about mortality at such a time. What lies ahead after death? I have my own ideas. I spent some time thinking about those things for a moment or two, quietly taking inventory on the things that trip me up and the things that lift me up from time to time. Death and funerals have that way of reminding one how human we are despite any bravado we may chase after life day to day.
As we sat there, words of comfort ringing in our ears, tears flowing, some family members rose to sing a couple of songs. Raw, powerful voices mingled with the notes from a piano offering words that called for a better day, a day when the pain from the present world ceased. Without warning, during one of the songs, one of my cousins sitting directly behind me let out a scream of overwhelming grief. I, despite being quiet and reserved, probably jumped a bit as it seemed she had screamed directly in my ear. I look back and chuckle some at this but only with the understanding that we celebrate and grieve in different ways, some cannot hold their feelings in, while others can, neither is necessarily right or wrong, just different.
We sat there as a family, gathered together only for a funeral, just like the last time we had all gathered together, at some other family funeral. I looked up a few pews to my cousins, the children of my deceased uncle. They looked as if a speeding train had smashed their lives. I couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead for them, knowing how they haven’t always gotten along with one another, wondering how this loss would cloud their lives in the time ahead. I glanced around at other family members. I spotted one relative who had chosen to come to this occasion in his San Francisco 49er jacket, liberated no doubt from the years of nagging his wife had given him over the clothes he wore everywhere. Some family members were crying uncontrollably. Others held up, strong for those who needed a sturdy shoulder to lean against. Behind the strong eyes I wondered how deep the hurt ran, how fresh was the wound. There we were, the smell of hairspray on big hair collided with cologne and perfume and cigarettes and a touch of body odor as the service ended.
We are who we are…messed-up, mixed-up, emotional, strong, silent, educated, street-smart, hopeless, confident, fashion plates in polyester, cotton, denim, orange jumpsuits provided by the county and even in the finest in sports team apparel. At the end of the day, we are who we are and at this moment, we stand together at the end of the road waiting to take one of our own to his final resting place.
To be continued…
6.03.2009
We Are Who We Are, Part 1
At the end of last November one of my uncles passed away. I briefly wrote about that death and attending his subsequent funeral in a post promising I would likely revisit the subject later. It was one of those events that I knew somehow impacted me as it happened yet one I knew I had to distance myself from before examining it deeper. That impact coincided with the Christmas holiday season and all that meant little time to really sort through it all. Now, maybe I can begin to crystallize some thoughts about the recent passing of my uncle.
I should preface whatever is to come with a statement something like this…whatever I write here is not meant to judge anyone although some of what I may write may appear critical. I’m also not trying to make fun of anyone although you may end up chuckling at some of what gets said. I’m just trying to write what I saw and experienced one afternoon when most all of us gathered together. And when something like that happens, what follows no doubt can inspire some criticism and some laughter.
I worked part of the day of the funeral, left from work and drove to my hometown. It’s about a 70 mile drive and takes about an hour and a half to drive. I had planned to drive straight to the funeral home but as I drove by my Mom and Dad’s house I saw my Dad outside. I looped around the house and pulled into the back driveway just as they were getting ready to leave. They rode with me the few miles to the funeral home.
At the funeral home, we almost immediately ran into two of my cousins whose father had just passed away. They were standing outside at the corner of the funeral home smoking cigarettes. Although it had been years since I had seen either of them, probably since our grandfather’s funeral, they recognized me. For a good twenty years some family and friends have referred to me as “Little Timmy” although I almost grace six feet tall and weigh more than I care to think about. That nickname came about from moments such as this meeting. Inevitably this comes from a family member I haven’t seen in a long time. When we see each other and they think it’s me the first thing out of their mouth is usually, “This is little Timmy?” I first recall this happening in the mid or late 1980s after a family reunion on my mother’s side. I joked about it to some friends and to some of them I became “Little Timmy.” On my Dad’s side of the family, I am the youngest grandchild even though I slipped into my forties awhile back. Now some family or friends think they gouge me or my ego by calling me “Little Timmy” but it doesn’t bother me at all. As a matter of fact if I don’t go to some family functions and I don’t get called “Little Timmy” I am a bit hurt.
After passing along our condolences to my cousins, we made our way into the funeral home and eventually to the room with my uncle lying in state. In the room were other family members I hadn’t seen in a long time…uncles, aunts, other cousins. We did briefly walk by the casket to view my uncle. It is a cliché to say this but he looked good. As a matter of fact I don’t think I ever recalled him looking that good in many years. Again, not trying to offend but what you must know is my uncle had been a hard-living man. He smoked cigarettes constantly and he downed a lot of alcohol. That combination along with genetics had left him with a slim, leathery appearance. Almost every time I saw him, he looked to me like he had just rolled out of bed, right down to his bleary eyes and disheveled hair. To me, he had looked old many years before this day. Although I didn’t see him frequently when I did see him he was often in dirty clothes…an untucked flannel shirt with unbuttoned sleeves, a pair of blue jeans that looked as if they needed washing and the final accessory, a cigarette dangling between his fingers or lips as he talked. I don’t recall ever seeing him drink but I heard enough stories to know he liked barley’s bitter brew coursing through his body.
As we stood in the parlor, my Dad began talking with some of his friends and relatives. Mom sat down with relatives and started talking with other friends and relatives. I followed suit talking with some of my cousins. It wasn’t long before more and more family began crowding into the room. Cousins known by two names smothered me with hugs. I stood there in the soft rumble of voices and tried to remove myself enough to really look around, to really soak in what was happening. I noted how my cousins look like their parents and how they often sound like them. I noted how those uncles and aunts and cousins who have already passed on from this life quietly reappear in the smile or the turn of a head or the tone of voice of a son, a daughter or a grandchild.
Into this mix, a couple of police officers walk in from the far side of the room. They escort a young man in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. I find myself caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace, so I close my eyes and slightly shake my head. I have been here before, in this same situation…and on both sides of my family. Some relative is incarcerated and has been allowed time to attend the funeral of a loved one.
So it hits me then, although deep down the feeling was there the whole time I had been here. We are who we are, and we’re never really far away from where we come from, no matter where that place is.
So, here we all are, retirees, blue-collar and white-collar professionals, at least one inmate, friends, in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces, nephews, all bound together for a few minutes one afternoon by the man in the casket that we knew and loved.
To be continued…
I should preface whatever is to come with a statement something like this…whatever I write here is not meant to judge anyone although some of what I may write may appear critical. I’m also not trying to make fun of anyone although you may end up chuckling at some of what gets said. I’m just trying to write what I saw and experienced one afternoon when most all of us gathered together. And when something like that happens, what follows no doubt can inspire some criticism and some laughter.
I worked part of the day of the funeral, left from work and drove to my hometown. It’s about a 70 mile drive and takes about an hour and a half to drive. I had planned to drive straight to the funeral home but as I drove by my Mom and Dad’s house I saw my Dad outside. I looped around the house and pulled into the back driveway just as they were getting ready to leave. They rode with me the few miles to the funeral home.
At the funeral home, we almost immediately ran into two of my cousins whose father had just passed away. They were standing outside at the corner of the funeral home smoking cigarettes. Although it had been years since I had seen either of them, probably since our grandfather’s funeral, they recognized me. For a good twenty years some family and friends have referred to me as “Little Timmy” although I almost grace six feet tall and weigh more than I care to think about. That nickname came about from moments such as this meeting. Inevitably this comes from a family member I haven’t seen in a long time. When we see each other and they think it’s me the first thing out of their mouth is usually, “This is little Timmy?” I first recall this happening in the mid or late 1980s after a family reunion on my mother’s side. I joked about it to some friends and to some of them I became “Little Timmy.” On my Dad’s side of the family, I am the youngest grandchild even though I slipped into my forties awhile back. Now some family or friends think they gouge me or my ego by calling me “Little Timmy” but it doesn’t bother me at all. As a matter of fact if I don’t go to some family functions and I don’t get called “Little Timmy” I am a bit hurt.
After passing along our condolences to my cousins, we made our way into the funeral home and eventually to the room with my uncle lying in state. In the room were other family members I hadn’t seen in a long time…uncles, aunts, other cousins. We did briefly walk by the casket to view my uncle. It is a cliché to say this but he looked good. As a matter of fact I don’t think I ever recalled him looking that good in many years. Again, not trying to offend but what you must know is my uncle had been a hard-living man. He smoked cigarettes constantly and he downed a lot of alcohol. That combination along with genetics had left him with a slim, leathery appearance. Almost every time I saw him, he looked to me like he had just rolled out of bed, right down to his bleary eyes and disheveled hair. To me, he had looked old many years before this day. Although I didn’t see him frequently when I did see him he was often in dirty clothes…an untucked flannel shirt with unbuttoned sleeves, a pair of blue jeans that looked as if they needed washing and the final accessory, a cigarette dangling between his fingers or lips as he talked. I don’t recall ever seeing him drink but I heard enough stories to know he liked barley’s bitter brew coursing through his body.
As we stood in the parlor, my Dad began talking with some of his friends and relatives. Mom sat down with relatives and started talking with other friends and relatives. I followed suit talking with some of my cousins. It wasn’t long before more and more family began crowding into the room. Cousins known by two names smothered me with hugs. I stood there in the soft rumble of voices and tried to remove myself enough to really look around, to really soak in what was happening. I noted how my cousins look like their parents and how they often sound like them. I noted how those uncles and aunts and cousins who have already passed on from this life quietly reappear in the smile or the turn of a head or the tone of voice of a son, a daughter or a grandchild.
Into this mix, a couple of police officers walk in from the far side of the room. They escort a young man in an orange jumpsuit and handcuffs. I find myself caught somewhere between a grin and a grimace, so I close my eyes and slightly shake my head. I have been here before, in this same situation…and on both sides of my family. Some relative is incarcerated and has been allowed time to attend the funeral of a loved one.
So it hits me then, although deep down the feeling was there the whole time I had been here. We are who we are, and we’re never really far away from where we come from, no matter where that place is.
So, here we all are, retirees, blue-collar and white-collar professionals, at least one inmate, friends, in-laws, cousins, aunts, uncles, sons, daughters, grandsons, granddaughters, nieces, nephews, all bound together for a few minutes one afternoon by the man in the casket that we knew and loved.
To be continued…
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