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…
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