April 23, 2004 - Funeral for a Friend

We might meet her again as a little girl. Or maybe a century from now, when we come back ourselves.

Until then, she's still with us, in our memories, that beautiful spirit.

Wednesday, the funeral:

Woke up to a beautiful spring morning. Rather than seeming ironic, it seemed appropriate for saying our final good-byes to the woman who brightened our days, whom we knew as Aunt Dottie.

The funeral service was in the little country church where her husband, whom we called Uncle Tom, preached for 40 years and where my parents still attend church.

They had her in a coffin up front, surrounded by banks of bright flowers. Clearly, she was already gone. The shell, less its precious spirit, was not her. My sister's fiancé had never been to a service before with an open coffin. Her seemed shocked but took it in stride.

The worst part about it was when they actually closed the coffin in front of everyone. I'd never seen that done before; it was somewhat disturbing.

We were seated in the front two rows, since my brother was a pallbearer and my sister and I honorary pallbearers. We introduced ourselves to the other pallbearers, many of whom I didn't recognize. One was a young man who had done Dottie and Tom's gardening. Another was a man who had grown up in their neighborhood and also called them aunt and uncle.

Three different pastors participated in the service, which was not surprising, given their standing in the church community. When it came time for anyone who wanted to share their thoughts to speak, I stood up. I felt it was important to say a few things, to express some thoughts for those, such as my sister, who were too worked up to speak.

I paraphrase:

Afterwards, my family thanked me for speaking. They felt my words were a great tribute to her loving, bright spirit.

My sister and I weren't quite sure what to do as honorary pallbearers, but our role was easy. We walked side by side behind the coffin as it was first removed from the church and then, one funeral procession later, carried to the grave by the actual pallbearers.

At the cemetery, the funeral director asked me to hold the basket of carnations from which each funeral guest could choose a blossom and place it on her coffin before it was sealed inside the vault that would, once we'd left, be lowered into the ground.

I think perhaps the funeral director thought I was my sister, who after all, had a very special relationship with Aunt Dottie. Dottie and Tom are her godparents, the people who would have raised her if something had happened to my parents while my sister was still a child. They always relished this role, and lavished praise and love upon her, as if she was, indeed, their child or grandchild.

Afterwards, I mentioned to my sister that I was sorry if the funeral director had inadvertently given me her role. She said that was fine; she was crying too hard to hold the basket, anyway.

I don't often cry at funerals. Instead, I've assumed a role in my family of being the strong shoulder, the caring, loving strength that will help them through such occasions. Putting an arm around my sister, steadying my mother. I do my crying alone. I make my peace with it by listening to James Taylor on a solitary drive, tears spilling down my face, praying to the heavens, commending her spirit to the Great Universal Be-All.

We attended a luncheon at the nearby church, a church that again, had strong associations with Dottie and Tom. He had preached there, as well, and remained a member in his years of retirement.

Another family, the Snyders, live in a house on a nearby hill. They enjoyed an even stronger bond with Dottie and Tom, so that, strictly speaking, I suppose they're honorary cousins to us Wilsons. It was the patriarch, Don Snyder, who helped Tom through the ceremony, almost as if Tom were his own father.

In the church hall, we sat near the Snyders, updated them on our lives. We'd shared many things together over the years because of Tom and Dottie: New Year's Eves, July 4 picnics, ice cream socials. The Snyders' children, Christoph and Liesl (named after characters in the South of Music) were, as always, smiling and gentle.

A new Snyder, Christoph's son, toddled around, making friends, brightening the sad smiles of those who met him.

For the rest of the day, until I did my evening's assignments, my siblings and I socialized. Our entire family met at Perkins for dinner, despite no one being truly hungry enough to eat.

While standing outside, waiting for my parents to arrive, my brother said he's always surprised and flattered that I write so much about him. He doesn't consider himself nearly that interesting, he said.

This was the second time in only a month that he and his wife had made the long journey from Vermont on a similar journey. Her grandmother passed away a couple weeks ago, and they drove to Altoona to bury her. I was invited but couldn't make the ceremony, so The Gryphon and I sent flowers.

My sister and her fiancé drove back to State College after dinner. They had each taken the day off but needed to be back in time for work the next day.

 

Thursday, running errands:

Since my brother and his wife were staying another couple days, I hung out with them as long as I could on Thursday before driving back, even though I knew it would mean hitting rush hour traffic near Philly.

We spent the day shopping and running errands. First was a stop to "Mall-Fart," as they call it, to copy an ancient photo (circa 1860s) of our ancestor, Milton Marshall, who fought on the Union side in the Civil War. We made copies for each of the three siblings plus an extra one our father can display. This way he can put the original away out of the light.

The photo service employee who helped us was excited about the task and thanked us later for making her day so interesting. It was the oldest photograph she'd ever reproduced.

While we were waiting for the prints, we drove down the road to Lowe's and browsed for home fixtures and the like. This time, my brother and his wife restrained their purchases, but they roamed the kitchen section and got plenty of ideas. They've been slowly redoing their fixer-upper, making fantastic project little by little.

As my brother says, "If you purchase a fixer-upper, you have to actually fix it. Otherwise, you're just living in a dump."

We ate lunch at Taco Hell, where I had an amusingly frustrating time trying to purchase extra cheese sauce. They actually made me wait in line for it! I was behind people who had ordered entire meals, and I finally requested they just, please, hand it to me, which they eventually did.

The prints turned out great, and we put one of them in a new, antique-looking frame for Dad. He was thrilled when he saw it and put it in a place of prominence, after carefully laying the original inside a linen drawer in one of my grandmother's antique dressers.

After a brief nap to refresh myself, I packed up the car and got on the road. Normally, I would have taken the time to dictate my experiences into my mini-tape recorder, for easy transcription later. But this time, I was in a meditative mood.

I drove in thoughtful silence, letting it all sink in, singing along to the radio and, when I was stuck in Philly rush hour traffic, reaching into the back seat to pet my dog, Una, who had spent two days playing with her sister (my sister's dog Emma) and mother (my brother's dog Pulsar) and was exhausted. Her golden fur, warm to the touch.

Moral:
Spirits passed on are flowers and sun in the Great Universal Be-All.