It was a time of reverence. It was
a time or mourning. It was the passing of one season to another in the seamless
grace of time. It was – wait a minute. . . . What’s that sound made while
dragging the needle across a vinyl record on the turn table? This is me talking about my
family. Nothing is ever seamless or graceful and, with me in the picture,
reverence barely comes in to play.
I have been writing for years about
life with my mother. Writing was one of the few things that helped me set aside
my angst over dealing with her. What made me very frustrated with her when she
wouldn’t cooperate quite often became very funny many moons later. Go back and
read the piece from 2009 about the ugly sweat shirt she wanted to wear to church. I was fighting her about changing into something in better condition.
She was being obstinate. I was going to be late for my own church across town,
and I didn’t want her church friends calling Adult Protective Services on me
after I dropped her off wearing that dreadful, tacky, ragged shirt. I ended the
argument in an instant by cutting it up the middle while she flailed her arms
trying to argue. Just the visual that comes to mind is still funny now. But it wasn't funny at the time.
The time had come for that final
walk on the path of Alzheimer’s. Mother passed away on the night of October 5th.
We did the usual family discussions about what to do next and gave ourselves
time to get everything done since she had a prepaid funeral package complete with
cremation and disposal instructions. We made the appointment with the funeral
director. We began with items we knew she would have chosen. Then he asked us
about other details, such as a viewing/visitation evening, did we want her in
an urn on someone’s mantle, were we scattering the ashes or were we going
straight from cremation to internment. We decided on no viewing, just straight
to internment. When it came time to inter the ashes we decided not to waste
money on an urn but go with a container that could be bolted shut and buried.
We were given transport documents to allow her travel in one of our cars across
the state line of Texas/Oklahoma. I spoke up and told them a friend informed me
that closing and opening a grave, even a small one, was cheaper on a weekday
opposed to a weekend due to manpower costs. Then we were presented with our
options: did we want the cemetery crew to open and close the grave for us, or
did we want to do it ourselves?
Now here is where you get to
understand my family better. I will just do this sentence style, but with some
of the conversation condensed, and the “I” is not always referring to myself:
I have a brand new folding army
shovel.
Isn’t Oklahoma full of boulders and
rocks? That could take a while.
Well, I could rent a backhoe from
Home Depot.
The nearest Home Depot is probably
about 2 hours away.
I don’t think a back hoe could dig
a nice, square hole. It will take you forever,
We would need a truck to transport
it.
And what if it rains?
Let’s just let them do it.
How big is the container?
Two by Two, and a little deeper
than two and it has to be at least two feet down.
Heck, that is not very big. We can
dig it.
No, we are not.
We decide on paying for the opening
and closing by the cemetery employees in Oklahoma. The funeral director sent
the dimensions of the box, along with instructions that are per the State of
Texas requirements.
On Saturday, October 18th
we had a touching memorial service for mother with a collage of pictures of her
throughout her life recorded on a DVD with the images fading in an out while
lovely music played. On a prerecorded DVD my daughter created a moving tribute
of my mother’s love of being a grandparent with pictures of all the
grandchildren over the course of their life with mother. I did the eulogy that
consisted of two humorous stories, one of which was from the blog post titled
“Baby Magic.” The other set up the fact that your grandparent is the first
person to teach you how to not reveal all the truth to you parents. I am sure
that phrase “your mother does not need to know about this” has been said to
every one of mother’s grandchildren. Then I read my poetic work that was
inspired by her watercolor of a pink rose. That work is also posted on the blog
and is simply titled The Watercolor. There
were a few tears, but there was more peace and understanding that this was the
end of a long journey with her. We truly lost her many years earlier. This was
the seamless change of one season to another.
Sunday, we traveled to Oklahoma
City to our hotel and had a nice meal with our cousin, Greg. We asked Greg to
do a graveside reading and something comforting from the Bible. The next day we
drove far out into the countryside east of the city to Wetumka. (Please note
that we passed about 65 casinos, but no Home Depot.)
We gathered at the headstone with
my father’s name already carved on the surface. Greg read the 23rd
Psalm and said some comforting words about our passing from this life and what we,
as Christians, believe. His words were lovely. It was a gorgeous, sunny day
with a cool breeze blowing. Two of the men in our party opened the container
for a couple of granddaughters to drop sweet notes inside. They closed the
container, handing my brother the instrument used to seal the lid so he could
place the tool inside the elegant wood and glass case that houses the flag that
was draped over our father’s casket. Then the men slowly lifted the container
and walked it to the hole to lower it down. Clunk. The hole was not big enough.
Even though the box was a square 2x2, they rotated it once and tried again.
Clunk. They jiggled it. They worked it back and forth in hopes it would
dislodge whatever might have been preventing it from sliding into its resting
place. Clunk.
Again, in sentence fashion and
condensed, this is what transpired:
A stifled “OOPS” was uttered.
My brother said, “Dang it! I knew I
should have brought my shovel.
I start the “trying not to laugh”
coughing spell.
(We could not look at each other
for fear we would burst out laughing.)
Did anyone see the grave diggers on
the grounds on their way in?
Yup, passed them in a beat up red truck
near the entrance.
My brother in law jumped into their
rented passenger van and headed up front, only to return with no one behind him.
Maybe we should go look for a
shovel to make the opening wider?
Should we go ahead and tell our
tender stories. In my mind I added: “while we listen to the soothing sounds of
a shovel slicing into the dirt, hitting rock, a possible Dang It uttered, followed
by the sound of dirt being dumped on the other pile with a sound slightly
similar to a cow dropping a patty in the barn yard.”
Another giggle was heard, but it
was not I.
We spotted the grave diggers
waiting for us to get moving so they can eat their sandwich for lunch.
It was determined to ask them to
come over and help us.
Discussion about timing ensued A.
keep going with stories (again my mind goes there: “while soothing dirt sounds
fill our memories, plop, plop, plop”) B. wait for them to dig while we stand
idle? C. ask them to wait and go ahead with stories ?
The family member standing next to
me lost it when I muttered the line “while we listen to the soothing sounds of
a shovel slicing into the dirt, followed by the sound of dirt being dumped on
the other pile with a sound slightly similar to a cow dropping a patty in the
barn yard.”
They lost it, and, in typical
childhood fashion, punched me and said “Shut up!” while they lost total control
of their laughter.
Mom probably looked down and said,
“Yes, that’s my bunch of knuckleheads, alright.”
