Once upon a time a married couple with a very young daughter bought their first house. They bought a fixer-upper that needed a LOT of fixing-uping. That was okay as the man built houses for a living, and his brother owned a brick mason company and between them they had both the tools and the talent for turning any house into a lovely place. The home they bought was pretty large, possibly too large for a couple with one child and no more to come, but still they got it cheap because it was in such disrepair. In their large detached two car garage were many pianos. It seemed to be storage for a couple dozen pianos made at the Starr-Gennett piano factory. Many were water damaged, or had other damage and were hauled away. One though was kept and cleaned up. A lovely upright of deep mahogany, with real ebony and ivory keys. When I was about 3 or 4, the man - whom I called Grandpa because he was mine, told me that if I learned to play it I could have it. It's one of those pieces that a person hauls around with them. I once broke into my grandmas house when her house was being auctioned off by some evil lawyers (which is a story for a different time) and with some friends made off with as much as I could in the way of family keepsakes - foremost being my piano. I've dragged it across the country from state to state. I don't think I've had it tuned in 20 years.
The factory burned down, they stopped making pianos and focused on recording for a time - first as Starr-Gennett then as Gennett records. What's left now are just the shells of the buildings that manufactured one of the great "material possession" loves of my life, my piano.
After Aunt Debbie's funeral we drove over there and I wandered through the graveyard of this great place, wishing I had seen it sooner but glad I got the chance to finally walk around at this place. It's lovely, they've made it a park.
There is a greenway people run on and bike on, and apparently they rent the building out for events. We met a lady who told us they held her prom there. I kind of like the idea of that, the music lives on in the shell of the building now.
Some of my favorite things around the little park at the factory were the many murals.There are murals all over Richmond and I have to kind of love a little town who embraces color and art in this way.
It was a fun walk down memory lane, to a place I had never been. I guess that's how you know you're home.
Once upon a time a married couple with a very young daughter bought their first house. They bought a fixer-upper that needed a LOT of fixing-uping. That was okay as the man built houses for a living, and his brother owned a brick mason company and between them they had both the tools and the talent for turning any house into a lovely place. The home they bought was pretty large, possibly too large for a couple with one child and no more to come, but still they got it cheap because it was in such disrepair.
In their large detached two car garage were many pianos. It seemed to be storage for a couple dozen pianos made at the Starr-Gennett piano factory. Many were water damaged, or had other damage and were hauled away. One though was kept and cleaned up. A lovely upright of deep mahogany, with real ebony and ivory keys.
When I was about 3 or 4, the man - whom I called Grandpa because he was mine, told me that if I learned to play it I could have it.
It's one of those pieces that a person hauls around with them. I once broke into my grandmas house when her house was being auctioned off by some evil lawyers (which is a story for a different time) and with some friends made off with as much as I could in the way of family keepsakes - foremost being my piano. I've dragged it across the country from state to state.
I don't think I've had it tuned in 20 years.
The factory burned down, they stopped making pianos and focused on recording for a time - first as Starr-Gennett then as Gennett records. What's left now are just the shells of the buildings that manufactured one of the great "material possession" loves of my life, my piano.
After Aunt Debbie's funeral we drove over there and I wandered through the graveyard of this great place, wishing I had seen it sooner but glad I got the chance to finally walk around at this place.
It's lovely, they've made it a park.
There is a greenway people run on and bike on, and apparently they rent the building out for events. We met a lady who told us they held her prom there. I kind of like the idea of that, the music lives on in the shell of the building now.
Some of my favorite things around the little park at the factory were the many murals.There are murals all over Richmond and I have to kind of love a little town who embraces color and art in this way.
It was a fun walk down memory lane, to a place I had never been. I guess that's how you know you're home.
It seems like the places we've gone have been too much for sad reasons lately. It isn't entirely true, but you know how harsh words loom larger than kind ones? Sad trips loom larger than happy ones as well. We rolled north, returning to our homeland to say goodbye to someone we loved and with it came all the stress of travel, the joy of reunion and the heartbreak of death. Pretty typical trip to Indiana lately, I must say.
We rolled into the church right at 10 am on the dot, running late as is our usual in a family with two special needs children, and I was directed into an ante room where we barged straight in on the whole family and Aunt Debbie's casket. The worshipers in the sanctuary were praying, and the processional inside had not begun. As we stumbled in, the twins, Julia and I, I gave Aunt Suzie a hug and right at that moment Miles chose to shout "Poop! I need diaper!"
Well if that's just not a circle of life moment I don't know what is.
I abandoned two of three children with Aunt Suzie and IN HEELS tore back out of the church to find my husband and oldest coming in, deposit Miles with them "He's pooped!" and run BACK into the church just in time to direct my own children to the back of the church. It's always better to be close to an exit when you have two severely autistic children, you never know when someone is going to begin shouting about poop, obviously.
The funny part is, I wasn't embarrassed. I've lived this life long enough that I can't be embarrassed by autism anymore. I felt bad that other people had to be part of the crazy at such a sad and stressful time but, that's also LIFE STUFF and life isn't always tidy and reverent.
I also happen to know Aunt Debbie would've laughed.
The little town where the girls lived (we called them the girls, grown ass almost 70 year old women and we called them the girls, I don't know why) is a little sleepy town on it's way to really damn hip. After the funeral we decided to go wander a bit and see what we could find to see and do, and to let the kids relax a little bit.
We found what might actually be the very worst ice cream shop in the world. I mean, there might be worse, but one usually expects a certain LEVEL of ice cream at these sort of artisan little creamery places right? First see how GRAINY that ice cream is? OMG IT IS TERRIBLE RIGHT? It tasted worse than it looks. It was GRAINY. As though it were Ice Milk which is something you probably never had unless you diet or grew up poor. My grandmother wasn't poor but had a weird thing for it. It's garbage.
My kids however, thought it was amazeballs.
Trying to use hip words. Go with me.
Here was the really amazing part of our day, however, the moment of meaning in the sorrow that happened as we said goodbye to someone we loved. Julia said "We're just like Aunt Debbie like that man said." That man was the preacher at the funeral and he had talked about the way she loved to travel, and how she was always going places, seeing the world, and visiting he friends along the way. "We like to go lots of places and see the world too," Julia told me. "We are just like Aunt Debbie."
Really, that's one of the best things I've ever heard. And I know she would approve.
It seems like the places we've gone have been too much for sad reasons lately. It isn't entirely true, but you know how harsh words loom larger than kind ones? Sad trips loom larger than happy ones as well.
We rolled north, returning to our homeland to say goodbye to someone we loved and with it came all the stress of travel, the joy of reunion and the heartbreak of death.
Pretty typical trip to Indiana lately, I must say.
We rolled into the church right at 10 am on the dot, running late as is our usual in a family with two special needs children, and I was directed into an ante room where we barged straight in on the whole family and Aunt Debbie's casket. The worshipers in the sanctuary were praying, and the processional inside had not begun. As we stumbled in, the twins, Julia and I, I gave Aunt Suzie a hug and right at that moment Miles chose to shout "Poop! I need diaper!"
Well if that's just not a circle of life moment I don't know what is.
I abandoned two of three children with Aunt Suzie and IN HEELS tore back out of the church to find my husband and oldest coming in, deposit Miles with them "He's pooped!" and run BACK into the church just in time to direct my own children to the back of the church. It's always better to be close to an exit when you have two severely autistic children, you never know when someone is going to begin shouting about poop, obviously.
The funny part is, I wasn't embarrassed. I've lived this life long enough that I can't be embarrassed by autism anymore. I felt bad that other people had to be part of the crazy at such a sad and stressful time but, that's also LIFE STUFF and life isn't always tidy and reverent.
I also happen to know Aunt Debbie would've laughed.
The little town where the girls lived (we called them the girls, grown ass almost 70 year old women and we called them the girls, I don't know why) is a little sleepy town on it's way to really damn hip. After the funeral we decided to go wander a bit and see what we could find to see and do, and to let the kids relax a little bit.
We found what might actually be the very worst ice cream shop in the world. I mean, there might be worse, but one usually expects a certain LEVEL of ice cream at these sort of artisan little creamery places right? First see how GRAINY that ice cream is? OMG IT IS TERRIBLE RIGHT? It tasted worse than it looks. It was GRAINY. As though it were Ice Milk which is something you probably never had unless you diet or grew up poor. My grandmother wasn't poor but had a weird thing for it.
It's garbage.
My kids however, thought it was amazeballs.
Trying to use hip words. Go with me.
Here was the really amazing part of our day, however, the moment of meaning in the sorrow that happened as we said goodbye to someone we loved. Julia said "We're just like Aunt Debbie like that man said." That man was the preacher at the funeral and he had talked about the way she loved to travel, and how she was always going places, seeing the world, and visiting he friends along the way. "We like to go lots of places and see the world too," Julia told me. "We are just like Aunt Debbie."
Really, that's one of the best things I've ever heard. And I know she would approve.
I never really spent much time considering my mother's funeral in terms of what it would be like. I suppose that's mostly because it wasn't something I wanted to think about for any damn reason, ever. That's probably dumb, because most people end up burying their parents so it's probably a good thing to have given it some thought. I on the other hand only ever knew one thing about my mom's funeral.
We had to play the song.
Since I was a small girl, when the song came on the radio my mom would say "When I die, I want this song to be played at my funeral. I want it to be LOUD - I want the church to SHAKE. And everyone has to sing and dance and celebrate me. I LOVE this song."
The song was SPIRIT IN THE SKY. What that meant was for the past 40 something years any time that song came on I'd get a lump in my throat considering the mortality of my own mother. It never really seemed possible. My mom wasn't going to die, I certainly wasn't going to play that damn song.
And then our mom did die.
This is our "we're smiling bcse we're not sure what to do" funeral photo of us all together.
We went with cremation and while I was ambivalent but OK with it when Matt and I discussed it, I realized how much that decision helped me when I walked into the church. I've been in funeral homes and churches many times with the dead. Sometimes they were people I loved. Sometimes they were random people my Grandma or Grandpa knew and we were "calling" because that's what you do. But having said that, and seen all that, I know that had I been required to stand in a room with my mother's dead body I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. I slip close to a breakdown when I even consider it too much.
The home where Dad lives arranged for him to be able to be there with us.
We got a quick pic of him with us and his girl grandchildren when he arrived. He did a great job really, despite being sad. He recognized people and had conversations with everyone. I was so glad he was there, it seemed unnatural to me that a husband not be at his wife's funeral. I guess this is something that nursing homes have to deal with and getting him there wasn't a problem at all.
The people who came were the people we loved. There were pictures for everyone to see of her with her family and this great slide show with so many wonderful pictures. Those of us in the know howled because there were some great pictures included, they just happened to be photos from "the camp" where dad was for a few years. We called those "awkward family photos" since not everyone has family photos taken inside a federal prison facility.
Yes we were actually laughing at the funeral. It was oddly wonderful like that.
Some of my best friends in the world were able to come, I didn't get a photo of everyone but after the family dinner I got one of three of the people who aren't friends, but the family I choose. They're people I have known since forever and who maybe see me once a year although Jeff hasn't seen me in years and years. They're the people I still love fiercely, and who know me better than people who see me every day. When we sat down to eat Tim looked at me and said "You're shaking eat some protein." It's probably been 20 years since we've talked about my low blood sugar. I was amazed.
I had warned everyone I knew about the playing of the song, and after the lovely doddering old minister who was a bit Pythonesque (honestly I loved this dude, if I dropped dead right now I'd want him because he was both sweet AND funny) and the case of the dangling repairman's legs out the window (thanks for doing work during my mother's funeral) I stood up and announced that we were going to honor our mother's wish.
She'd told me when I was home that she though April's church might be a good place to do her funeral because of the sound system. She'd given me the thumbs up sign and a smile when she said it. So there we were on a early Friday afternoon, and I stood before a gathering of friends and family and announced that we were going to dance and sing - and I gave the guy in the alcove the thumbs up.
He didn't disappoint.
My entire life I thought that dancing and singing upon my mother's death wasn't something I could or would ever do. There are all sorts of funeral rituals around the world and I've read some weird things people do to honor their parents. I've always wondered how they manage, how do you do it? How can you do ANYTHING when your parent has died?
What I learned is that when it's the last thing you can do for them, it's not so hard. I danced, I sang, I cried a little but very little. I made Pete dance with me. It's what my mom wanted. She spent our whole life preparing us for the day that we had to deal with her being dead, and she gave us a song to celebrate her life and to make it a moment where we smiled and laughed.
The song wasn't for her. It was for us. I never once realized that until it was over. It was the last thing she ever gave us as our mother, but it was powerful and important. It changed the day into a sad but also somehow wonderful day, it was an amazing gift.
After we ate a meal prepared by Christian women (nod to Steel Magnolias) the family ended up wandering into the church's gym and then something else wonderful happened. Everyone ended up playing volleyball.
Everyone laughed and squealed and played, and it was just this amazing thing that wasn't planned but just happened as naturally as can be.
With that we'd done our obligations as children, as humans, as residents of this planet, by honoring our mother the best we could and giving her what we promised. I realized much later she had said she wanted balloons and I totally forgot all about it. I figure she'd forgive me. We'd hugged the people we loved and had been reminded what family means to us. And we played the song.
The song that was for us, and not actually for her at all. I share it with you now. It's the best thing my mother ever gave me. Tweet
I never really spent much time considering my mother's funeral in terms of what it would be like. I suppose that's mostly because it wasn't something I wanted to think about for any damn reason, ever. That's probably dumb, because most people end up burying their parents so it's probably a good thing to have given it some thought. I on the other hand only ever knew one thing about my mom's funeral.
We had to play the song.
Since I was a small girl, when the song came on the radio my mom would say "When I die, I want this song to be played at my funeral. I want it to be LOUD - I want the church to SHAKE. And everyone has to sing and dance and celebrate me. I LOVE this song."
The song was SPIRIT IN THE SKY. What that meant was for the past 40 something years any time that song came on I'd get a lump in my throat considering the mortality of my own mother. It never really seemed possible. My mom wasn't going to die, I certainly wasn't going to play that damn song.
And then our mom did die.
This is our "we're smiling bcse we're not sure what to do" funeral photo of us all together.
We went with cremation and while I was ambivalent but OK with it when Matt and I discussed it, I realized how much that decision helped me when I walked into the church. I've been in funeral homes and churches many times with the dead. Sometimes they were people I loved. Sometimes they were random people my Grandma or Grandpa knew and we were "calling" because that's what you do. But having said that, and seen all that, I know that had I been required to stand in a room with my mother's dead body I would probably have had a nervous breakdown. I slip close to a breakdown when I even consider it too much.
The home where Dad lives arranged for him to be able to be there with us.
We got a quick pic of him with us and his girl grandchildren when he arrived. He did a great job really, despite being sad. He recognized people and had conversations with everyone. I was so glad he was there, it seemed unnatural to me that a husband not be at his wife's funeral. I guess this is something that nursing homes have to deal with and getting him there wasn't a problem at all.
The people who came were the people we loved. There were pictures for everyone to see of her with her family and this great slide show with so many wonderful pictures. Those of us in the know howled because there were some great pictures included, they just happened to be photos from "the camp" where dad was for a few years. We called those "awkward family photos" since not everyone has family photos taken inside a federal prison facility.
Yes we were actually laughing at the funeral. It was oddly wonderful like that.
Some of my best friends in the world were able to come, I didn't get a photo of everyone but after the family dinner I got one of three of the people who aren't friends, but the family I choose. They're people I have known since forever and who maybe see me once a year although Jeff hasn't seen me in years and years. They're the people I still love fiercely, and who know me better than people who see me every day. When we sat down to eat Tim looked at me and said "You're shaking eat some protein." It's probably been 20 years since we've talked about my low blood sugar. I was amazed.
I had warned everyone I knew about the playing of the song, and after the lovely doddering old minister who was a bit Pythonesque (honestly I loved this dude, if I dropped dead right now I'd want him because he was both sweet AND funny) and the case of the dangling repairman's legs out the window (thanks for doing work during my mother's funeral) I stood up and announced that we were going to honor our mother's wish.
She'd told me when I was home that she though April's church might be a good place to do her funeral because of the sound system. She'd given me the thumbs up sign and a smile when she said it. So there we were on a early Friday afternoon, and I stood before a gathering of friends and family and announced that we were going to dance and sing - and I gave the guy in the alcove the thumbs up.
He didn't disappoint.
My entire life I thought that dancing and singing upon my mother's death wasn't something I could or would ever do. There are all sorts of funeral rituals around the world and I've read some weird things people do to honor their parents. I've always wondered how they manage, how do you do it? How can you do ANYTHING when your parent has died?
What I learned is that when it's the last thing you can do for them, it's not so hard. I danced, I sang, I cried a little but very little. I made Pete dance with me. It's what my mom wanted. She spent our whole life preparing us for the day that we had to deal with her being dead, and she gave us a song to celebrate her life and to make it a moment where we smiled and laughed.
The song wasn't for her. It was for us. I never once realized that until it was over. It was the last thing she ever gave us as our mother, but it was powerful and important. It changed the day into a sad but also somehow wonderful day, it was an amazing gift.
After we ate a meal prepared by Christian women (nod to Steel Magnolias) the family ended up wandering into the church's gym and then something else wonderful happened. Everyone ended up playing volleyball.
Everyone laughed and squealed and played, and it was just this amazing thing that wasn't planned but just happened as naturally as can be.
With that we'd done our obligations as children, as humans, as residents of this planet, by honoring our mother the best we could and giving her what we promised. I realized much later she had said she wanted balloons and I totally forgot all about it. I figure she'd forgive me. We'd hugged the people we loved and had been reminded what family means to us. And we played the song.
The song that was for us, and not actually for her at all.
I share it with you now. It's the best thing my mother ever gave me. Tweet
There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.
I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.
On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.
We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.
Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.
My turn.
We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."
They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.
Then I felt bad for feeling like that.
I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.
I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.
I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.
There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.
Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.
We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.
Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.
There's a lot of work to do to get ready for a funeral. There's the funeral work. My brother did that. He asked me a lot of questions, getting my opinion. Luckily, being raised by the same mother we're in sync with so many things that it wasn't a battle or an ordeal. He'd call and say "I'm thinking this" and I was so thankful he'd thought of something I didn't find any reason to find fault with it.
I'm grateful for that. I know some people have to deal with their grief in addition to sudden battles over burial or cremation, viewing or not, what prayers what songs, what what what what? It becomes a power struggle. Maybe it's an ego struggle as everyone pushes their own agenda. I don't know because it wasn't my experience. My brother had good ideas as we walked toward this new experience together and I was grateful for them.
On my end there was the travel. There is the travel prep and then there is the travel itself. I'm not sure which is more tiring.
We acquired dresses and suits and ties, and checked the tires. Preparations were made of various sorts as we got ready to head north.But most importantly, we had to tell our kids.
Everyone knew that Grandma was very sick and wouldn't live long. I suppose that's the reason no one questioned this sudden flurry of shopping. But my brother and I had agreed to tell our children at about the same time before we did a general announcement in the land of social media and as the sun set I got his message that he had told his children.
My turn.
We were sitting in Chilli's having a typical sub-par meal and so at one point I shared the information with them. I felt numb as I said the words. "Grandma died today."
They stared at me with blank faces, but the calm might have been more disturbing than a huge outburst. They acknowledged what I had said, and seemed sad but at the same time I don't know what I expected. A friend of mine recently said "Dammit feel my shit the way I want you to" as a joke. But that's how I felt. I wanted someone else to feel as gutted as me and I felt guilty for wanting it to be my children, I guess I just wanted to not feel so alone in this pain. I worried and worried about how they would take it. Then they took it with sadness but calm and I felt like they didn't seem to care as much as I wanted them to.
Then I felt bad for feeling like that.
I remember when my Grandpa died, with whom was I was very close. My mom was her Daddy's girl and by the same token so was I. When he died I was devastated. I remember crying and crying when my daddy told me. But then after that I don't remember really crying again in the immediate days after. I remember getting a new dress at Newkirks which was the best shop in town. I remember being very impressed by this dress.
I remember the spectacle of it all being actually quite fun, so many people and so much visiting plus all the food. It wasn't bad. It was happy because of all the love and family being around.
I suppose that then it shouldn't have surprised me that despite my own sadness, my children found fun and activity on the way there.
There was coloring and laughing at dinner on our stop and I couldn't any fault with that at all.
Julia made a treasure map to get to the funeral. All maps are treasure maps it seems. I can't find any fault with that either.
We crossed rivers and states and traveled north to the land where our people live and our people have died. It was a long drive and it was past bed time when we rolled in.
Nickajack is always one of my favorite views on the trip. At least the trip is scenic.
Last week the question was "Are you alright?" I wanted to answer with Marcellus Wallace response to Butch every single time, "No, I'm pretty fucking far from alright." But I didn't. It because apparent that other people weren't just checking on me, but that somehow me being alright helped them be alright. So I said I was alright.
I wasn't ever "alright." But I said I was because people needed to hear it. As days wore on, it became closer to being true.
Five of us traveled to the mountains of West Virginia to bear witness to our friend's burial, to say goodbye and to make peace with everything, including how unfair the universe can be. 17 hours of travel by car, up and back, into a place you can't get there from here, we sang most of the way and distracted ourselves from our duty and mission.
When it was over, the question changed. "How was it?"
I don't know what to say. It was a beautiful place. It was a terrible two days. We actually laughed a lot. I felt horror and anger and range and unbelievable sadness. I felt at home when the Masons came to give him his final rites. I thanked the men who have traveled East for being there and said to them how much it meant.
What it really was for me, for the first time, was closure.
I never needed closure before. I never needed to find peace with a death. People die, sometimes people die unfairly or too early. But I guess somehow, I always accepted death and it's seemingly random timing. This time I couldn't accept it or even know it was real. I knew it was real but I couldn't get it into my head that he was dead.
But he is.
I think, despite everything, what brought me to the place I needed to be were the Masons. Their white aprons, white gloves and their somber but respectful words just settled over me and I realized this was it then. The Masons were saying the words and we're done.
I actually am ok. I'm sad, but the bewildering loss and raging anger seems to have faded. I know it just is a new world now and I am now moving in it and finding new adventures. I am okay with where I stand today. I wouldn't have chosen it, but we rarely get a choice in how the world moves.
Last week the question was "Are you alright?" I wanted to answer with Marcellus Wallace response to Butch every single time, "No, I'm pretty fucking far from alright." But I didn't. It because apparent that other people weren't just checking on me, but that somehow me being alright helped them be alright. So I said I was alright.
I wasn't ever "alright." But I said I was because people needed to hear it. As days wore on, it became closer to being true.
Five of us traveled to the mountains of West Virginia to bear witness to our friend's burial, to say goodbye and to make peace with everything, including how unfair the universe can be. 17 hours of travel by car, up and back, into a place you can't get there from here, we sang most of the way and distracted ourselves from our duty and mission.
When it was over, the question changed. "How was it?"
I don't know what to say. It was a beautiful place. It was a terrible two days. We actually laughed a lot. I felt horror and anger and range and unbelievable sadness. I felt at home when the Masons came to give him his final rites. I thanked the men who have traveled East for being there and said to them how much it meant.
What it really was for me, for the first time, was closure.
I never needed closure before. I never needed to find peace with a death. People die, sometimes people die unfairly or too early. But I guess somehow, I always accepted death and it's seemingly random timing. This time I couldn't accept it or even know it was real. I knew it was real but I couldn't get it into my head that he was dead.
But he is.
I think, despite everything, what brought me to the place I needed to be were the Masons. Their white aprons, white gloves and their somber but respectful words just settled over me and I realized this was it then. The Masons were saying the words and we're done.
I actually am ok. I'm sad, but the bewildering loss and raging anger seems to have faded. I know it just is a new world now and I am now moving in it and finding new adventures. I am okay with where I stand today. I wouldn't have chosen it, but we rarely get a choice in how the world moves.
26 days and almost exactly to the hour that we shot this picture, my friend Chuck left the world. That isn't a long time.
I wrote about our last lunch as the three amigos, lunch buddies with ridiculous senses of humor and kindred spirits that made us perfect companions in our adventures at work and lunch. I think I never laughed so hard with any people in my entire life, as I laughed with Dave and Chuck at lunch. Dave leaving to start a new life full of adventures without us was sad.
Chuck and I trudged onward, eating lunch and making plans to go see Dave sometime soon. We're obviously not going to be doing that.
I've had a lot of death in the past two weeks. A bit more than I was mentally ready for. I learned about the Jewish funeral rites, which was fascinating and rather comforting. I liked the end, when everyone helped in the burial. It is action, from the family and community to perform one last service for the dead, so that the business of living can begin again. You do this for the person you loved, and life starts back up again. The person lives in your memories and the pain gets less as time goes on, until you are just left with the happy and sad fades to grey.
On Tuesday some of the best people I know are getting in a van and driving to do our last service to Chuck, to bear witness to his funeral and say goodbye. We can't fix where we are today, nor all that has happened. But we can do this one last thing and so we will.
26 days and almost exactly to the hour that we shot this picture, my friend Chuck left the world. That isn't a long time.
I wrote about our last lunch as the three amigos, lunch buddies with ridiculous senses of humor and kindred spirits that made us perfect companions in our adventures at work and lunch. I think I never laughed so hard with any people in my entire life, as I laughed with Dave and Chuck at lunch. Dave leaving to start a new life full of adventures without us was sad.
Chuck and I trudged onward, eating lunch and making plans to go see Dave sometime soon. We're obviously not going to be doing that.
I've had a lot of death in the past two weeks. A bit more than I was mentally ready for. I learned about the Jewish funeral rites, which was fascinating and rather comforting. I liked the end, when everyone helped in the burial. It is action, from the family and community to perform one last service for the dead, so that the business of living can begin again. You do this for the person you loved, and life starts back up again. The person lives in your memories and the pain gets less as time goes on, until you are just left with the happy and sad fades to grey.
On Tuesday some of the best people I know are getting in a van and driving to do our last service to Chuck, to bear witness to his funeral and say goodbye. We can't fix where we are today, nor all that has happened. But we can do this one last thing and so we will.
We had to make a sudden Trip North on Friday of last week due to the passing of my husband's Father. We're terrible at timeliness, so despite our best efforts we didn't take off until evening, arriving in Southern Indiana in the early AM hours Saturday. After the services we saw my husband's family at the requisite family meal and it was nice because my kids had never seen some of these relatives. I feel really bad because I'm realizing that we didn't get pictures, or as many as we should've with his family. I don't really know why and now I'm feeling all bad about that. His sister took pictures so I am really hoping that she sends them to us. But what I realized, laying in bed this morning was something rather odd about our trip. We went a lot of places, saw a lot of people - and it almost seemed throughout the trip - that we were showing our oldest son (because the little ones didn't quite understand) WHO WE ARE and HOW WE GOT HERE.
These are the people we love, we were showing him. This is where we lived. This is where we used to go. These are the things we love and like. It was a whirlwind of dunking our children into the ponds of our past. Starting with his family on both sides and then to see mine for dinner.
Here are mine with their 1st cousin Maddie at our favorite place to eat when visiting Grandma. THE PIZZA KING! This one has a train that delivers your drinks, which if you are little, is pretty much the coolest thing ever from what I can tell.
Besides the brilliant train and yummy pizza the pizza king has a train ride of dubious safety (they've had to bolt it to the wall) but the kids like it.
Here are the twins riding the train with their Grandma helping.
Of course the big boy and Maddie needed a turn as well.
My brother has a new baby that I got to see and kiss and hug for the first time as well. She's a chunky cuddler, I love big babies. They give the best snuggles.
This is what we do in Indiana, when there is death in the family. We eat meals together. First with his family, immediately following the funeral, and then this day we ate with mine. I'm not sure if it's some archetypal throwback to "eat drink and be merry for tomorrow we may die" or if it's just basic family bonding. Sometimes you eat at the house, sometimes you go out to eat.
