Nothing But Love :: golf blogger

A Funeral

My uncle passed away after a battle against bladder cancer that lasted two-and-a-half years, which was far more time than the all-knowing doctors gave him. At 75, he had enjoyed life. He was an exceptional athlete in his youth, a war hero, and an exceptional family man, having loved his wife of 53 years and having raised four wonderful, loving children. He worked hard in the steel mill to support his family; and after retiring from there, with the children out of the nest, took a job working with his wife in the kitchen of a local high school, always puttering in the yard, pruning and planting, and mowing the lawn after work.

Nobody really does ... except for my sister-in-law.

While married, she, with her ex-husband, traveled around, it seemed, appearing at funeral homes nearly every night in the Sicilian tradition. She had it down to a science, hands clasped in front of her, head bowed at just the right angle, shoulders stooped slightly, eyes a little moist. I know she is good because this is how she paid her respects at the wake held by my other sister-in-law for her dear, departed collie, who was laid out like in the old days, in the home, except that the dog, at rest for about 12 hours, was not on ice, candles burning near the dog's head and only a small amount of discharge from its posterior.

Like I said, I don't do this funeral thing very well. I realized Sunday that I was driving 45 mph on the interstate, subconsciously slowing so as to delay our arrival, which Stacey pointed out is something I have done since well before the turn of the century. I vowed to change. This morning, I was on time for my duty as a pall-bearer.

I was a pall-bearer at my grandmother's funeral. I needed to be at the funeral home for the brief memorial service, the trip to the church for the long memorial service, then to the cemetery. I suggest that in a similar situation you do not decide to take a shortcut through the Metropark system ... in the middle of an early-March blizzard ... where they rarely plow the roads ... and where you might get lost because you really don't know the way. Being 45 minutes late, meeting the procession just in time to help carry the coffin into the church, is not respectful.

And always, without fail, pee before leaving the memorial service prior the drive to the mausoleum that your wife's very well-to-do uncle will be interred ... especially when you do not know how far the mausoleum is from the church as you drive up and down the winding roads in the Pittsburgh area. A wide-mouth jar is the preferred receptacle into which to micturate over a two-liter Diet Mountain Dew bottle. Be assured that it is very bad form to empty the Diet MD bottle of its original contents while driving because the contents are ... umm, like yellowish in color ... people talk ... you know how they are. And it is advisable that you have someone who can steer from the passenger seat while laughing his ass off during the process inasmuch as it is nearly impossible to steer with your knees with a two-liter bottle in between them and two hands occupied, making sure you hit the opening.

I don't do the funeral thing well, like I said.