Sometimes you don't need the World to supply you with news. Sometimes it happens right on the home-front. Sadly, this is normally the type of news we want to avoid. Sure, this isn't always the case, there's the baby news, getting married news, the cousin won the Lottery (but probably won't share, because you're like barely first cousins.) news and such. OK. So to be fair, news is balanced. However, this weekends news was of the variety none of us wanted to receive, but weren't particularly surprised when we got. Great Grandma Vera had passed on.
No on is upset about her death. Not in the traditional sense. We'll miss her, and the one's who knew her best (my grandmother, mother...etc) they'll think of her quite often, sometimes fondly, sometimes not. But me? All I remember are hugs at Christmas (Which always leads directly into thoughts about fruit cake, which I still haven't the slightest idea to why, exactly, it's called fruit cake. Is there actually any fruit in it? Debatable.) and the occasional phone call. (To my mother. I was like 10 and probably even more annoying to talk to than I am now. Have your doubts? Lose them.)
So today, rather than taking my normal 10 minute trek to the bookstore, I huddled into the car with my father, mother and little sister, and buckled in for the two and a half hour journey to Jacksonville, where my grandmother lived most, if not all, of her life.
I have no interest in the Jacksonville area. it's home to a football team I've never really liked, a girl I'm crazy about, and a smell that I can't quite comprehend, (I'm told it's a pulp factory? I'm not even sure what that phrase means.) but it's definitely not my place.
Funerals have always freaked me out. And not for the standard reasons. I don't mind death. I've understood, or believed (People get so upset when you say things with clarity and confidence. Well, if they say something different the same way, that is.) that death isn't really that big of a deal to the deathee. My great grandmother doesn't (More than likely.) care that we showed up to watch her interred. She might have appreciated the thought before hand...but, in general (I hope we can all agree.) funerals are for those left behind. They're chances to say good bye and chances to get some closure, or at least the illusion of it.
I didn't really know what to say goodbye to. Grandma Vera was 98. I hadn't seen her for years, and even then, she just sat on the couch and chatted, very, very slowly, with my grandmother and the other adults. To me she had always been hard evidence that people, do in fact, get old, (A fact that, if you looked at my mother and her sisters, you may deny.) with the comfort in knowing it won't be anytime soon. She was someone to hug and say "I love you" to for vague reasons and familial propriety. (That doesn't make the love any less true, but maybe a tad less meaningful.)
So I said goodbye to a woman I barely knew, but still loved. I chatted with family members that I had forgotten I had, and tried to be a comfort to my grandmother, who has been much more than someone to hug on Christmas.
But, to say that this funeral was bland or smooth would be a lie. First, it's Florida. And for those of you who don't know, Florida doesn't have seasons. Rather, it has a State of Being. And that State of Being is "Muggy." (If you live in Miami it's "Muggy & Mugged." A two for one deal if there ever was one.) In the vein of all great lineman (That's an overweight athlete, for those of us who haven't turned on their TV's in the fall, ever.) I sweated so profusely that I'm pretty sure I have to burn the shirt I was wearing.
I got to walk around a cemetery, which was a solid mix between incredibly interesting and terrifying creepy. Every time a cloud passed overhead I expected the zombie horde to come screaming out, and every time the Sun glared off a windshield or someone's glasses I expected Steven Seagal to jump out from behind one of the headstones, guns blazing. Of course, none of these things happened. (But what if they had? What if they had?) Rather, we had the oldest living women I've ever met, fall--in what seemed like slow-motion. Miraculously she managed to land in one of two spots in the entire area that didn't have a headstone or plot marker, and was relatively unscathed. (She was damn sure she had ruined the whole funeral, we'd probably have to start over.)
To make that situation worse, her daughter was not entirely in the know about what we'll call "common cemetery protocol." Well, neither was the Old Woman herself, but if she wasn't 100, she was fast approaching it, she can be forgiven. The plot where my great grand parents were buried is right by her neighbors plots (the Old Woman's husband had already gone on.) Apparently, a salesman had gotten the bright idea to go door to door selling the "doorway to Heaven." (Yeah, I just went "Salesman Speak" on you.) He must have made a, pardon the pun, killing on my Grandmother's block.
This woman, Kitty, I believe, decided she would look for her future resting place. I can't imagine why anyone would want to see this. Ever. I understand it needs to be done. Buy the plot, put money aside for your funeral, be responsible to those you leave behind. But, isn't that something you do, and then never talk about again ever? I thought that's why parents had children Today. Cheap labor and someone to take care of all of their stuff when they finally (Don't read into this Mom and Dad.) pass on. Kitty's daughter, no shame in her game, was doggedly determined to show her mother where her husband had been buried. (*TAP TAP TAP* "Mom! I'm hitting Daddy! I'm hitting Daddy!") And her mother, bless her, looked at her husband's grave marker and said "Oh look! There's my spot." (While she stood, literally on top of, her future grave.) Before she plodded her way back to her daughter's car.
I wasn't sure how to handle the situation. Until I locked eyes with my cousin and aunt, who had been staring at me, waiting, knowing that when I looked over, I wouldn't be able to hold it any longer. Suffice it to say I found a very good reason to be somewhere else. Quick, fast and in a hurry. (Admittedly, the two women probably would have laughed too. They wouldn't really comprehend they "why" of it all. But damn it, they'd be laughing.)
I won't get into the ride home because, who wants to hear that stuff? Much less be forced to read about it? (A lumber truck rolled over on the high way and it took us like an hour to get by. Ha!)
I think the real message here, at least that I want to understand for myself, is this: Our time on this planet is limited. Believe it or not. It's hard to cherish every moment with those you love, (Hell, it's hard to cherish even a few of those moments, sometimes.) and it's hard to look at life with a consistently positive attitude. But, life shouldn't be something that you "struggle on" with. Something you "push through." Take your time. Enjoy it. Make sure you have people in your life that you get to hug on holidays. Make sure you can say "I love you" to them for more than the childlike fear of getting popped by your mother, or because you know you should. I'm not saying do this: http://xkcd.com/791/, but you totally should.
No comments:
Post a Comment