I was a pallbearer yesterday.
People so often equate funerals with great sorrow. I'm not sure why unless it has to do with an untimely death, such as when an accident, disease, war or other tragedy takes someone young. That's sad because it seems so unjust, so unfair.
It's true that a loved one has passed away and we shall miss them, but death comes to us all. It's part of life, like eating or breathing, notwithstanding that we only die once. It seems practical to me that we accept this fact, maybe more so because I have had to face my own demise and I feel that I'm prepared for the transition.
We are only sad in the first place because we love someone. We spent time with them, laughed with them, cried with them, ate with them, spent the night at their home, maybe shared burdens and overcame them together, visited on holidays. The point is that we have memories and those memories are what remain. They begin to occupy our thoughts even before the final bow.
Aunt Arlene was the first born of eleven in a farming family in West Sweden, near Frederick, WI. She was 89. The last memorial here was my mom's 2-1/2 years ago. Frederick is the "big town", population about 2200. The main street is 4 blocks long, mostly little shops. They have a traffic light now. It seemed bigger when I was small.
At my age, funerals are the most common form of family reunion, which is probably the main reason I feel the way I do. For though we shall miss the dearly departed, the rest of us remain and take advantage of the occasion to get caught up. We have a few tears, but mostly we have a good time sharing fond memories and stories.
I feel closer to my dad's side of the family - we spent more time with them and he only has 2 sisters - much easier to keep everybody sorted out.
On my mom's side, there are dozens of cousins, aunts and uncles, perhaps some I haven't even met, and some of us have changed enough in appearance where we have that brief awkward moment ("Which one are you?") followed by recognition ("Oh, my god, it's been way too long.").
I have pleasant memories of this place, about 95 miles away from my home. I first drove a tractor here when I was 3, milked cows, watched calves be born, picked corn, swung on the tree swing, learned to fire a shotgun, went fishing too long one day and got the worst sunburn of my life, all that without ever living in this part of the country until later, when most of my generation had left the nest.
But more than that, I feel a connection to this land as if it were some holy place. My mom came from here, so in a sense, I did too. I'm not sure how to explain it. It's almost like driving through a mist into Brigadoon. Since my dad was career military, I never established roots, but when I am here, I feel like I belong. It's eerie.
I have another reflection of the day - how unique and marvelous each of us as individuals really are. Not just my family. There are people we see on some regular basis. They are part of the scenery. We take them for granted. Yet each of us has abilities, talents and occasional near-genius ideas that would fascinate us if we but took the time to get to know each other better.
At these gatherings I always learn something about my family and about people in general that I didn't know before.
These people are salt of the earth. My brother (also a pallbearer) and I (city boys) both had our suits pressed, got fresh haircuts, polished our shoes and washed our cars to get ready. Another cousin pallbearer, still a native, came in painter pants, wore work boots and didn't bother to shave. For him, he was "dressed up". My brother and I were the "out-of towners", the odd ones, yet we were all equals, because it's your character, not your clothes, that count here.
And that's the thing. In our fast-food immediate gratification society with its streaming multimedia, instantaneous communications, and striving for celebrity, people are still just folks deep down inside. I find that refreshing. Strip away the bling and what's left? Who are you behind that image?
A few profiles:
I met a man who was one of Arlene's classmates. He told me stories about the one-room schoolhouse that used to stand on the same corner as the church. And about the church barn where each of the church members had a stall to keep their horses warm during services in the winter. Interesting guy, still getting around. I wish I had more time to spend with him.
My cousin Kori is the best singer in the family, a choir director. She has sung at every aunt's and uncle's funeral to date. She told me she once asked her mom when she might get out of the "funeral gig". "Sorry, kiddo, there's still a few of us left." While she was singing, I realised how much she (and her sister) look like my own sisters. So much that it hit me like a ton of bricks. A lesson in genetics.
Cousin Kay is about my age. He still lives there and has an implement parts business. If you need to repair a tractor, he's your man. They also make parts from scratch. I didn't know that. We got to talking about the internet. He regularly getting some parts that would that would normally be junked, and he started selling them on eBay 6 months ago. He increased his sales enough to get pushed up to the first page at Google for that kind of thing.
Cousin Tom, a few years younger, has looks that could get him a supporting role in an action film. Strong, rugged, chiseled. He's a football coach at Winona State (Division I). I didn't know that. He can comp me some tickets when they play at the Metrodome.
2nd Cousin Dan, Arlene's grandson, is a rather strapping young lad. He was a Navy corpsman and spent a number of years patching up Marines. When he was stationed at Camp Pendleton in '95, he had Thanksgiving with my family in San Diego. I didn't know that. So he got to know the other side of the family.
Cousin Carrie, 59, has been a flight attendant for Northwest for 21 years, will retire in a few more. He was the captian of his high school basketball team and I got to watch him play. He was also a drummer in a band that played coast to coast in the 60's. I knew all that, but he still looks the same to me as when we were playing in the hay loft 50 years ago.
These are just people, but they're my people. You have people, too. Don't wait for a funeral to get caught up. Update your address book, write a note, send an email, pick up the phone. Get reaquainted. See what they've been up to lately. Fill them in on your end while you remember the magic proportion: 2 ears, 1 mouth. Tell them you love them. Make a new memory together.
There's nothing like a funeral to make you think about things a bit.
Kent Kyle