After much procrastination on the part of myself and my family, we've
decided upon a place where my father's ashes should be interred. This Friday, at
ten in the morning, he'll be laid to rest in a lovely old cemetery that dates
back to sometime before the civil war. My brother stumbled upon this place when
getting ideas from the funeral director. We were astounded that there were still
available plots for cremains.
The cemetery, when my brother and I were in our high school years, was a
famed spot for the quiet partyers to go to drink, smoke, and generally hang out.
Back then, it was surrounded by farmland. Now, enormous homes with pitifully
small lots have been erected in those lovely old fields. Many of the stone walls
which rambled around the hillsides have been removed; yet the cemetery's walls
are intact.
No matter how hard I tried the Veterans' Administration couldn't find the
personnel to do the firing of the guns nor the playing of taps. Nowadays,
they're all deployed in the middle east. Perhaps that's better. The only thing I
find troubling about it is that my father, in his last days, became more vocal
about his service to his country during World War II than he ever had. Despite
the horrors of war, he remembered his wartime comrades fondly. And he reiterated
that although he thought war was a horrible thing, he was proud of his service.
A handful of his friends will be there to say final goodbyes. It's been six
months since his passing, and I think that the initial shock of losing a guy we
thought would live forever has worn off, and this will, hopefully, put a cap on
the intense grieving; leaving the holes in our hearts to begin healing. I was
delighted to hear that these friends would show up. Someone said something like,
"There are friends, and there are friends who show up." It'll be
delightful to have just the folks who show up around for this.
I'd like to think that dad's looking down upon us. My Buddhist sect believes
in reincarnation; I, personally, am not so sure. I'm not really sure about much
at all these days. I heard a baby crying in the restaurant and my wife said
"that might be your daddy; that baby's only six months old." I wonder.
Just a day before he died, he spoke frankly with me about how he was at peace
with death. I selfishly asked him to give me a sign, if he could, that he's okay
wherever he is. "If I ask you for a fan you'll know where I am." He was funny
right up to the last.
Mother, whose illness has been a burden
on my brother, myself, and all who interact with her, has recently, to our
amazement, shown signs of grieving. I hope her burden is lessened by the closure
provided by this simple ceremony. My brother, an emotional coward, asked that
dad's minister officiate. She couldn't; she'll be out of town. So I wrote a few
words and offered to run them past him, but he said to just say what I need to
say and "get it over with fast." Timed, my speech lasts 14:30. Fourteen minutes
and thirty seconds; the distillation of 83 years on this earth.
Dad's funeral in September took an hour. Half of it was a polished,
heavily-produced multi-media affair I put together from old family photos,
movies and slides; and photos sourced from others. And his favorite tunes. It's
a work of art I dedicated to him. Creating it was cathartic. There was no need
for anyone to say much else. The rest was music; that's what he wanted.
This Friday, in the old cemetery, there will be no technology, no amplifiers,
no microphones. There'll be no music, but for the wind rustling the leaves of
the trees and the song of the birds. I think I'm gonna try to cut a few minutes
off the speech, and let nature do the talking.