Funeral Feelings Expressed With Shovels And Sweat, Salt And Sea Water

 

“My father always wanted to be the corpse at every funeral, the bride at every wedding and the baby at every christening,” said his daughter.

 

 

My father had a cowboy funeral.

 

Instead of the nearest Boot Hill, his ceremony happened in the veterans section a big cemetery.

 

People from every part of his life attended, including his last horse, a retired racer. I think it was his second wife’s idea, the horse getting trailered and driven in from their 100 acre ranch property.

 

His first wife, my mom, wasn’t much of a cowgirl, which is surprising from a woman born deep in the heart of Texas.

 

She came to my father’s funeral, too. I passed her on the way with my wife and kids stuffed into our car.

 

“Why did you pass and not stop,” she asked?

 

“Ma, you forget how hard it is getting a load of kids in and out of the car for a quick visit? There’s no such thing as a quick visit,” I said.

 

“You wouldn’t have to do that much with two. I’d know, I had four,” she said.

 

I didn’t want my father funeral feelings turning to guilt with my mom, so I did what every dad does.

 

“One of the kids is sick. Nasty cough and a nose running green stuff,” I said, which wasn’t a lie.

 

I heard words spoken about my father that day as if they described someone else. They didn’t know my dad, but they knew him after his dad days.

 

We sang Amazing Grace together. After the first verse one of the mourners started it again, then again.

 

During the musical part of the program, the horse standing in field near my father’s grave became noticeably moved. Though I’m no expert on horse arousal, this retired racer looked ready for a few laps.

 

Following my wife’s nudging when I pointed out the horse, I got in line with everyone who could to scoop a handful of dirt and drop it on the coffin.

It was a symbolic send off that felt so good I got back in line and did it again. Then a few more times.

Finally a small group asked the grounds keepers for shovels and dug in. My father didn’t get a back-hoe burial, he got a hand-made last call.

 

The reception afterward included a few sweat stained, dirt smeared men drinking beer and calling his name. I joined the cheers by campaigning as his favorite son.

 

I think my father would have liked that, crowding for the top spot.

 

II

 

Public funerals are a huge thing for public figures, dead and alive. Private memorials are more intense. If Aretha Franklin is the new standard for women, and John McCain for men, matching them will be impossible.

 

Even for Teddy Roosevelt.

 

My mother had a beautiful memorial. She asked that a few grams of her ashes be tossed in the Pacific Ocean. I agreed, and out of ear shot volunteered for the job of ash distributor.

 

She didn’t want  her ashes in just any part of the ocean, either. It had to be Sunset Beach on the Southwestern Oregon coast where she raised her family with my father.

 

My funeral feelings were a little hurt that I didn’t know how important Sunset was to her.

 

A long line including her brother, children, grandchildren, daughters and sons in-laws, friends and family, made the trek over sand and rocks. Dodging tide pools and sneaker waves, the bigger group stayed back while her children ventured to the edge of the continent.

 

I held the small vial of ashes and poured them into the sea. Instead of dissolving and vanishing, the ashes migrated to a pool and didn’t move.

 

I leaned in to see if any magic would happen, if the swirling tides would arrange her ashes in some recognizable way. My funeral feelings hoped not, but I didn’t want to miss anything.

 

The light reflected just right for a moment and I saw my mom’s DNA looking back at me. Pictures from her younger days showed an Elizabeth Taylor look from National Velvet.

 

I remember her playing the piano once as a kid and thinking she was better than the musicians on television. We had an upright piano in the house and she played it once. No one else gave it much of a chance.

 

Looking into the ocean pool with her ashes drifting back and forth made me realize we can be anyone we want to be, but she was more than anyone else.

 

She was was ours.