Funeral Blues

We've been rather peripatetic this summer, and not completely due to plan. Our trips to the Napa Valley, Seattle, and Ireland left us pleasantly exhausted and ready for some rest close to home. As the late summer arrives in San Diego, it's best to lay low and beat the heat, avoid the crowds, enjoy the cool mornings. Plenty of books line our shelves, plenty of recipes await my attentions. Pickles must be sampled. Blu-ray players must be utilized.


One of the major drawbacks of living far from family is the need for sometimes immediate travel considerations for unexpected life events. The death of a family member always comes suddenly, even if one has been solemnly predicting or expecting the passing. Jane's family had ample time to say their goodbyes to a dear and close relative, and one can consider it a blessing to achieve a sense of closure and finality rather than the sudden shock of a quick and unexpected loss. However, planning doesn't make saying goodbye any easier. And while "Pops" had cut a lonely figure since the passing of his beloved wife nearly a decade ago, and had suffered from increasing confusion and dementia following a series of small strokes over the past few years, the knowledge that he was finally leaving his pain behind still left the rest of us with our grief.


I'm still at the age where my attendance at weddings far outweighs my attendance at funerals, but I've seen enough farewell ceremonies to know that I'd be proud to be escorted from this earthly domain with the love, consideration and warmth with which Jane's grandfather was last week. One couldn't call the ceremony a secular one, and yet it managed to avoid being strictly an offering up to God. The religiously-themed funerals I've taken part in have certainly helped offer a noble face to death, and calling upon the protocol and ritual of the centuries establishes a continuing thread of meaning that helps connect old with new, past generations with present. And yet, amid all the prayers, hymns and ritual, one can lose sight of the individual being laid to rest. A funeral should encompass both mourning and celebration - the celebration of a life. While a religious ceremony may help with the mourning, it sometimes offers little in the way of celebration. For that, one must turn to those who knew the departed best.


What came through during our farewell ceremony was a small yet accurate portrait of Pops - his love of life, his strongly-held opinions, his bawdy sense of humor, his love of Sikeston, Missouri's Lambert's Cafe and their "throwed rolls". Short and long speeches were given, old-time country-and-western music played on the stereo, and a military flight jacket was hanging in the corner. Jane and I sang two duets in tribute, Buck Owens' "Together Again" and Porter Wagoner and Dolly Parton's "The Last Thing on My Mind." At the burial ceremony, representatives from the local VFW offered taps, a gun salute and the presentation of the flag - fitting tribute to a man who flew bombing raids during World War II. And at a small dinner for family and friends held later that evening, the spirit of Pops was noticeable and uncanny. At each table placing sat a baseball cap and a can of Dr. Pepper. The caps came from Grandpa's not-inconsiderable collection that spanned all four corners of the globe (I claimed one that bore the name of a Yuma, Arizona-based business establishment, which nobody present knew the significance of). The cans of Dr. Pepper represented Pops' favorite libation - the Drink of the Gods. Everyone put on a baseball cap, poured themselves some Dr. Pepper, and told one or two stories about the guest of honor - stories about tipped canoes, about Branson, Missouri, about improvised rules of card playing, about stray fish hooks, of jokes involving ducks eating popcorn. More than once, we recalled one of the favorite sayings of this proudly working-class individual - "I wonder what the poor folks are doing?" - spoken during moments of pure contentment, often involving food and cans of the Drink of the Gods. Pops had the kind of wealth that has nothing to do with money - in his eyes, he lived like a king when his hot dog was roasted properly and his can of Dr. Pepper was properly chilled.

I'd like to think that our lengthy walk / hike / ramble along an Oregon riverway the following day was a further tribute to a man who loved the outdoors and family time as much as he loved anything. We didn't see many wild animals, and the cooler weather meant we didn't take advantage of the rushing waters. But the blackberries were at their absolute ripest. The rattlesnakes left us alone. Our cucumber-and-cream-cheese sandwiches hit the spot. We all wondered what the poor folks were doing.