By Bob Chrisman
Allen Cemetery on the outskirts of Gower, Missouri serves as the final resting place for my mother’s parents and some of her aunts, uncles, and cousins. Names like Patton, Divelbiss, Pogue, and Williams mark the plots of family members. Every Memorial Day we decorated those graves. As time passed and more relatives took up residence among the tombstones, we didn’t attend to as many of the graves. After my father’s stroke in 1969, which left him bedridden, and my sister’s departure to teach a distance away, we decorated fewer graves because my mother didn’t like to leave my father alone for long.
After my father died in 1984, Aunt Vera, my mother’s younger sister, and her husband, Uncle Howard, joined us for the annual, grave-decorating trip. Neither one of them drove anymore so they gladly came along for the outing and the lunch that followed. I would swing by their house, just up the street a few blocks from where my mother lived, and pick them up.
Uncle Howard had a great sense of humor despite the hardships of his life. He managed to find something funny about most everything. Going to the cemetery provided him with an opportunity and a captive audience. Much to my mother and aunt’s chagrin, my uncle always told me the same story on the way there.
“Bob, did I ever tell you about buying those cemetery plots?”
Although I had heard the story many times in the past, I would say, “No, Uncle Howard. What happened?” With that question he launched into the story.
“Your mom and dad and Vera and I made an appointment with Eldon Lee. You know Eldon Lee, don’t you? He was the funeral director and caretaker of the cemetery. We drove out to Gower one evening. We picked four spaces right in a row. The girls decided that we would be buried boy-girl-boy-girl.
“Eldon Lee put your father’s name down first, then your mom’s, and then he started to write my name. I said, ‘Eldon Lee, hold on. I’m not happy with this arrangement.’ They all looked at me like I’d lost a marble or two, but Eldon Lee put down his pen to hear me out.
“I said, ‘When you die, you lay down for your eternal rest to get some peace, don’t you?’ Eldon Lee nodded his head. ‘Well, how much rest and peace do you think I’d get planted between Lucile and Vera? Not much. I can tell you that right now. You better put the girls together between Len and I so all that chatter between the girls won’t disturb us in our graves.’
“That’s why your mom and Vera have places next to each other.”
He laughed in that mischievous way of his. My mother and Aunt Vera sighed. Aunt Vera said, “Oh, Howard.” No matter how many times I heard the story, I laughed. I could imagine my mother and her sister gossiping in the grave while my father snored on one side and Uncle Howard tossed and turned on the other end.
Uncle Howard had another routine that he started when we pulled up the gravel road into the cemetery. He never failed me in doing this one, which irritated my mother and aunt beyond words. That made it all the funnier because they should have known it was coming, but it always appeared to take them by surprise.
My mother and her sister decided which set of graves we would visit and in what order. My Uncle Howard pointed at new graves we passed.
“Look, Bob, see that one? Hey, you girls, would you pipe down? All your talking drives the ground squirrels away. I’m trying to see how fat they are. Looks like we’ve added lots of new dishes to the graveyard buffet lately.” He laughed.
That stopped the women’s conversation. Aunt Vera usually said, “Howard, that’s no way to talk about the dead.”
“I guess you’re right.” He paused for effect. “But, they’re dead and they don’t care about my little joke.”
Mom said, “Howard, someday you’ll be lying here in the ground and you won’t want someone talking about you like that?”
“You’re right, Lucile, but I’ll be dead and I won’t care. I’m so little and skinny the ground squirrels will be very disappointed when they lift the lid on my coffin. They’ll probably look at one another and say, ‘Ain’t much meat here. Let’s move on.’” Then he’d laugh and I’d join him.
Uncle Howard hit the buffet line in April, 1990. Aunt Vera followed in December, 1993. In February 2008, my mother joined them. My family won’t add any more people because we have scattered all over the country.
On January 1, 2009, I drove up to the cemetery to pay my respects and to remember the stories of my childhood. When I entered the cemetery I found myself looking for the new graves and the ground squirrels. I stood at the graves of my parents and my aunt and uncle. I listened as the cold wind blew through the place. I didn’t hear Mom and Aunt Vera talking. Maybe Uncle Howard’s plan worked. I hope he enjoys his eternal rest in peace.
About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his family. For Memorial Day 2010, we published Desecration Day, Bob’s humorous yet moving piece about a grave decoration day that got a bit out of hand.
You can see these other pieces of Bob’s in which he writes with humor and compassion about his family members: Aunt Annie’s Scalloped Oysters and The Law Of Threes. He also published these pieces about the life and death of his mother: Hands and In Memoriam. And he produced a trilogy about his father: My Father’s Witness, Bearing Witness, and My Life With Dad.
Bob’s other red Ravine posts include Growing Older, Goat Ranch, and Stephenie Bit Me, Too.
Uncle Howard suffered a lot during his life, but he never lost his sense of humor for long even though he could easily have stopped laughing at some points. I didn’t know him as well as my sister and my older cousins did. They have plenty of stories about him. My sister still has a doll he sent to her from the South Pacific when he was in the Army during World War II.
Aunt Vera loved to accessorize. She had tons of costume jewelry and always had the right ring, bracelet and necklace to go with her outfits.
Funny how life deals some people a lot of bum hands, but we play the hands that are dealt us or leave the game. They played the hands they got.
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Another good story and family memory. It’s just a good thing Mom and Dad aren’t there too. Can you imagine the chatter between the three of them and the sawing of logs with your Dad and mine? Poor Uncle Howard wouldn’t get any sleep at all.
Am very proud of you and your writing.
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Thanks for stopping by to read this piece. How was the tee-ball game? Have a safe trip home.
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Uncle Howard sounds like a great guy, Bob. I mentioned to you in a separate note how much your stories of your mom’s sisters and their husbands reminds me of my aunts and uncles. My mom had four sisters, two are still living, and they were each married. It’s funny how certain aunts and uncles become favorites. My mom also had two brothers, so I had many uncles on that side of the family, but only two very funny ones. The funny ones always stand out.
I can hear so well not only the conversation but the rationale of Uncle Howard on putting him and Len on the ends. That makes perfect sense. I know when I think of cemeteries and the graves there, I always picture the souls of the deceased as still being there, hanging out with whoever is around them.
In many national cemeteries, where soldiers and their spouses are buried, they stack the soldier and his (because it’s often a man) wife. That stacking bothers me. I literally picture the two of then sleeping on top of each other. Intellectually, I know it doesn’t matter, but my imagination still has that visual of two folks laying on top of one another, not facing one another, and how uncomfortable that would be.
BTW, I’m curious about Eldon Lee. Was ‘Lee” his last name or middle name? In either case, I love the name. One of those names that if you wrote a fictional book about him, you’d be hard pressed coming up with anything better.
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Eldon Lee was not his whole name and now I can’t think of the last name…maybe “Hixson.” He ran the funeral home in Gower.
I think it was popular in first half of the 20th century for people around here to name their children with two names. My Aunt Vera was Vera Virginia which her sisters would call her if she gave them any trouble. My Mom’s name was Fannie Lucile, but no one, except people who didn’t know her, called her Fannie. She was always Lucile or Lou. The cousins called her Aunt Lou.
My mother’s oldest sister, was Leona Faye, but she went by Faye. Then the youngest sister was Anna Lee or Annie.
The brothers-in-law had one name: Ray, Len, and Howard. My Uncle Pete’s real name was Vernon, but everyone called him “Pete.”
My cousin who commented earlier today has a middle name that we use, but I won’t tell what it is in case she doesn’t want people to know.
Most of the cousins only used one name because calling us by our first and middle names usually meant we were in deep trouble.
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Correction: My Uncle Howard was in the Navy during WWII, not the Army.
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Damn, Bob, I love, love, love this line: “Uncle Howard hit the buffet line in April, 1990.” What a wonderful pay-off after artfully weaving the squirrel tale (tail?). I just loved how it made me laugh out loud here in my consulting cube.
I’ve heard and read so many stories now of your mother and her siblings/relatives that I feel as though I know them. I’m predicting next lines, that’s how vivid they are for me.
This vividness is also evocative. While reading, I was reminded of how my sisters and I always avoided walking on the “heads” of graves so as not to wake up those sleeping below.
All to say, I’m picturing Uncle Howard — what’s left of him — chortling after reading this story. I’m also picturing him giving you an approving wink for keeping his spirit so memorable and alive.
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Bob,
Thanks for another great post about your family. Like Flannista said, I feel like I know them, too. I hope I’ll see a picture of your parent’s headstone sometime, too.
We’re currently picking out and buying Dad’s tombstone. It’s very important for my mom that it include a lot of details…more than I think necessary. She’s a hard-core grave decorator, though. I try to remember that; it’s a big priority for her to get it just right.
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Thanks, Flann. I hope that people read these stories and fall in love with my aunts and uncles. They were kind people that all had their issues, but in the end they loved us all.
Teri, thanks for the compliments. I have a picture of my parent’s headstone. I always joked with my mom about why she hadn’t had them carve the final date. She’d say, “Because I don’t know when I’m going to die. I didn’t even have them put ’19–‘ because I think I might make it into the next century.”
She did. And because she hadn’t allowed them to carve “19” into the death date, it cost less to have “2008” carved because no correction had to be made. She was money-smart.
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Received an email from my cousin who lives/works in China. He said he couldn’t read my pieces at night because he would stay up too late remembering the family members. He has decided that he wants each of the cousins to write five stories about our growing up. I have my five already done.
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You are right Bob, Hixson is/was Eldon Lee’s last name. By the way, for people who want to know, my middle name is Sue and my maiden name was Simmon, so my initials were SSS. Uncle Howard once bought me an initial necklace and asked Mom what initial he should put on it, first, second or last. Mom said “Howard, it really doesn’t matter since they are all the same”. Talk about a laugh, I don’t think he ever forgot that and he would always laugh about it.
SSSM
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This is the cousin we called “Sharon Sue” even when we weren’t mad at her.
When Johnny Cash came out with that song, “A Boy Named Sue”, I didn’t think much about it because we had a relative whose name was Junior, but everyone called him Susie. My cousin in China reminded me of that.
Teri, you mother should put whatever she wants on the headstone as it’s her tribute to her husband. My parents were minimalists…full name, year of birth, and year of death. My aunt and uncle went for more information a cardinals.
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Great piece, Bob! I always love your family tails (hee hee). Funny yet poignant. I think its a great idea for your remaining family members to write down stories that they remember. I bought the domain MACEBLOG with an idea to doing something similiar, but haven’t followed through.
You are just so awesome at this!
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Thanks, Neola. A MACEBLOG sounds great. I’d read it to keep up on the stories of your family.
Am I the only one who has funny & odd stories about things that happened at funerals and visitations? Like the story about my mother’s cousin and her bathroom experience at my Aunt Faye’s funeral. Or, my Uncle Ralph at the visitation for my Grandma Hecker. Or the wasp attack on the altar boy at a friend’s father’s funeral. Or, the story of the holy water shaker that came apart and rebaptized the family of a friend who didn’t get along with her family. Does anyone else have stories like these?
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Bob, after reading through your list (and I bet it’s not even half of what you’ve got) of funeral anecdotes, well, my guess is that you alone have this many stories. 8)
I have a collection of about a half dozen stories in which I suffered an attack of Inappropriate Giggling Syndrome (IAG–I named it) at a funeral. It’s happen many times, one of which was when during High Mass for my grandmother’s funeral, the priest swung the incense burner like a smoldering soap-on-a-rope and almost hit a man in the head.
In our family, funerals seem to often turn into laughter and joy as the family members get together and reminisce. I’ll always remember how much my mom and her sisters laughed after my grandmother’s burial when all were back at the house. Maybe it’s the underbelly to sadness.
Although my IAG is not the same kind of laughter, and in fact, I’m pretty miserable whenever it happens because it is so inappropriate to the moment.
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yb, the seriousness of a funeral lends itself to laughter because we know we shouldn’t be doing it. For example, at my Aunt Faye’s funeral Sharon, my sister, and I got the death stares from our mothers because we couldn’t stop laughing over an incident that only we saw. We had to leave the funeral and stand on the porch to laugh it out. We received a stern lecture later.
One of my favorite stories about my favorite grandmother involved the funeral of Uncle Virgil, the husband of one of my father’s stepsisters. My sister and I sat on the front row on either side of my grandmother. We heard this horrible crying coming from the back of the room.
A tall thin man in a black suit with his hair slicked back held up a woman all dressed in black with gloves, a pill box hat, and a veil. She held a white handkerchief to his nose as she sobbed.
“Grandma, who’s that woman? Why is she crying so much?”
Grandma looked and then said to my sister and I. “Oh, don’t mind her. That’s Katherine and Glenn. You think she’s crying now. Wait until she finds out she isn’t in Virgil’s will.” She kinda laughed.
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Katherine held the handkerchief to “her” nose, not her husband’s.
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Bob, I’m always amazed at your stories about your relatives. Especially the funeral stories. I’ve hardly been to a funeral, let alone have stories about them. The way you write about them brings them to life for me. I feel like I know your family firsthand.
Great thread of conversation. ybonesy, I didn’t know they stacked the bodies like that. Strange. I don’t think I’d like that either. And Teri brings up the idea of detail on markers and stones. It’s such a personal thing. And sometimes there is no marker at all.
About names — it’s common in the South to have two names and be called by both of those names. I’m kind of used to it. But Eldon Lee is a classic. Can totally see a story named “Eldon Lee.” Once again, I can hear you reading this story aloud, Bob. I like knowing you got part of your humor from your family. Lineage. 8)
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What interests me are people reactions to the stories. The things I take for granted other people find unusual, fascinating. Maybe that’s a lesson to all writers to emphasize (once again) to write what you know. What we think of usual and humdrum can turn out to unique points of view to others.
QM, you must come from a long line of people who live forever or maybe you don’t go to funerals. You are younger than I am and maybe that’s the reason for the lack of funeral experience. Why the lack of funeral experiences?
yb, I’ll have to explore that stacking business. Don’t they put concrete vaults in the ground in which they place the caskets? That’s what we do here in the Midwest. It would be difficult to stack those things as they are quite big…maybe deep is a better way.
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QuoinMonkey,
Like Bob, I’m surprised that “you’ve hardly been to a funeral.” I’ve been to dozens and dozens (and dozens). I have a big family and most of us live in Minnesota. Maybe that’s the difference.
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Bob, you and I must meet someday. That dry humor…you are definitely my kinda people! Another crack up! Love the way you take a subject (which can be so awkward for some) and make make it just so dang funny. You do them all proud in the effort. My family has a small cemetery (roped off inside a big one) in the small town of Alamo. Most of the head stones (my Uncles’) say “Gone fishing”. My Aunts’ say “Gone with him”. I scattered my Father’s ashes in his favorite fishing spot to one-up them. 😉
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anuvuestudio, we will meet someday, probably in a cemetery. My family didn’t have enough clout to have it’s own VIP section. None of the tombstones are humorous because my family saved its humor for “off the record” afraid to offend anyone else.
I like the “Gone fishing” and “Gone with him” inscriptions on the headstones.
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That would be what we would have on our head stones if we were going to have them.
Went to Cumberland Cemetery before leaving this morning and took some pics of stones that are “different”. Would you like to see them?
Also found where Bowen Cemetery is, on Hiway 6. We went by it and I yelled “That’s where Aunt Faye and Uncle Ray are”. Dick wanted to know why they are there and I told him that it is probably where Uncle Ray’s family is, since that’s basically how most of them are placed.
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My parents and my Aunt Vera and Uncle Howard are buried in Allen Cemetery. Sharon’s parents, Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete are buried in Cumberland Cemetery. Uncle Ray and Aunt Faye were buried in Bowen Cemetery. So, the girls who lived most of their lives together were split up in death.
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Bob, I don’t think it was clout…I think it was their guns 😉 Even my Aunts packed em. :O
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Bob – another vivid peek into your family. I feel like I’ve met them.
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I used to hate going to cemeteries, probably because my mother believed that if you stepped on a grave, you would fall in on top of the person buried there. I pictured a crash of splintering wood (the coffin) and the grip of bony fingers around my neck.
Last year I finally went to Chicago’s Oak Lawn Cemetery to visit the graves of my grandparents and great aunts and uncles. I hadn’t been there since the last burial in 1971.Oak Lawn is very near U of Chicago, where Nic went to school, but I waited until his graduation weekend to visit the graves. Oak Lawn is a classically beautiful place, a green oasis in the middle of a tough ghetto area. Very peaceful. Many trees and ponds.
My funny funeral story- my grandmother died in 1971. During her funeral, while the pastor was talking about what a pistol she’d been, there was a huge Boom that shook the funeral parlor and also lifted my grandmother’s body up a few inches above her coffin and then dropped he rback down (the furnace had had what turned out to be a small explosion – no fire). “See what I mean about Elva?” the pastor said and then continued with the service.
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Reminds me of my Aunt Faye’s funeral and all of the stuff that happened during and after it. We went out in the country to the cemetery in a pouring rain. Everyone that could huddled under the tent. The minister said, “And the voice of the Lord God spoke–” before he could finish a crack of thunder sounded overhead and scared the **** out of all of us. My sister has always maintained that the minister could have saved many souls that day if he has only put out an altar call after the thunder sounded.
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Bob & Teri, lol, nope, my people don’t live forever. I just haven’t been to many funerals. I was thinking about how to respond to your questions without getting too windy. I moved 2000+ miles away from family in Pennsylvania and the South when I was in my early twenties, so was (and still am) pretty far away. At that time, I also didn’t believe in going to funerals. I feel a lot differently now. I now wish I had attended the funerals of many of my sets of grandparents in Pennsylvania, Tennessee, and Georgia. I miss them. It’s different in my family than what I know of your families (speaking to Bob and Teri now) because there are several marriages and we moved from South to North. My extended family of origin is huge and geographically in different places. I know each of you stayed in the same area. It’s harder when families are more spread out.
I used to not believe in funerals because I wanted to remember people the way they were when they were alive. I wanted to keep my memories of them intact. The way I honored them and spent time with them was to go to their gravesides and sit and meditate. Or leave flowers. Sometimes talk to them. I still kind of feel that way philosophically. But I am better able to see the value in funerals for those left behind, for the grieving family members. And I think the ritual of being with others who are mourning is important. We can be strong for each other. I think it took me a while to come to that.
So, to answer your question, I really have not attended very many funerals. Yet I have grieved in my own way. And I visit the gravesides when I can. I like sharing those visits with others, too. Like when Mom and I visit the graves in Georgia and South Carolina. I’ve written a lot about those visits in my memoir. The ways people grieve are so individual. That’s part of what I like about these pieces that Bob wrote, the poetry from Erin, and the cemetery pieces that ybonesy and I have written on red Ravine over the years. I find them inspirational, respectful, humorous. All good ways to come to terms with the death of those close to us.
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QM, glad you clarified the “funeral thing” for us. It does help to stay in the same area where all your relatives are. Even though the several of the cousins moved away, they always come back for the visitation and/or the funeral. We even delayed Mom’s funeral a bit so the cousin from Colorado could drive back for it. It will be interesting to see what happens when the cousins start to die and are buried in other parts of the country. Will we all go to their funerals? I don’t know.
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I used to not believe in funerals because I wanted to remember people the way they were when they were alive.
QM, this comment reminds me of how I used to feel about taking photos of places I’d been to. And while these may seem not very related—attending funerals or not as compared to taking photos or not—your rationale resonated with me. It also reminded me that when it came time for the divvying out of my grandparent’s possessions, I skipped that part because I felt philosophically opposed to the ritual itself.
Bob, a big reason as to why I enjoy reading your pieces is because they remind me so much of how connected my mom’s family was when I was young. Whether it was for baptisms, graduations, holidays, marriages, births, or death, we always got together. After my grandparents died, there were still probably just as many events but the glue holding us all together was gone. Not completely. Probably more than anything else, it’s the funerals that we all rally ’round for nowadays.
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Bob, I think rituals are changing. How we stay connected to family, the mobility of younger generations, which rituals are passed on, which fall by the wayside. That’s why I think it’s so important to get the family tree info down before it all disappears. I think some of the rituals around “remembering” are falling away. In addition to living in a different place, I had three sets of paternal grandparents. It made my immediate family so much larger, and sometimes complicated things in ways too hard to explain in these comments. I sometimes wish I had attended their funerals, though I was too young to know that then.
ybonesy, it kind of makes sense about taking photos of places. We can then depend on our memories alone to remember the place. I’m a big photo taker and like to have photos of the places I visit. For me, they stir the memories. But I also know that when I take photographs, I miss out on having the full experience of being there, of being in the moment. From that perspective, it makes total sense. I like what you said about the “glue” that holds things together in families. I think about that a lot. Maybe it is different for each family member, as to who is the glue. But, for me, my mother and brother Louis are the glue. And, for me, my mother, step-father, maternal uncle, paternal aunt, are the glue to my Southern roots. It’s important to think about the “family glue.” To honor it. And know that when it’s not there anymore, a strong cord of connection may disappear. A loss. Perhaps another will step up to take its place. You just never know.
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yb, I agree about the glue. My maternal grandfather died the February before I was born in May. His wife lived several years after, I can’t remember when she died…seems I was 9 year old or so. When she died, the sisters still hung together (in an odd way…one was always fighting with another over something). They held the family together.
After the first sister died and her husband went into a nursing home, that cousin quit attending most of the family get togethers. Then another cousin whose parents were still alive quite coming to events. I dropped out for awhile. My mom and Aunt Annie and Uncle Pete continued the family events until only my mom was left and things fell apart. It won’t ever be put back together again for the cousins.
QM, I agree that the rituals are changing. We lose our foundations, our lineage, our sense of place and belonging. The visits to the cemetery weren’t about the dead as much as about the living.
My cousins tell me that I recreate stories about our shared past and cause them to remember their own stories. We have some great stories to tell about our parents, but no one tells them. Those stories will be lost to my cousins’ children and their children. They won’t have a sense of their ancestors. That is sad to me.
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Family rituals. I just came home from one of the most moving funeral rituals I’ve ever been part of. Last Wednesday a nine year old girl, on vacation here on the Lake Michigan shore with her family, drowned in a freak kayak accident. Her body has not yet been found. All of us who live here have been witness to the search efforts and all of us vibrating with this family’s sorrow. This evening 2 teenage cousins of the lost child created a candle light ceremony on the beach. They walked around our rural neighborhood and invited the few families currently here. All of us have been deeply affected not only by the tragedy but also by the outpouring of support surrounding this family, from the first day when boats, divers, helicopters and airplanes converged from 10 different nearby counties – to the neighbors who opened their homes and their kitchens – to the 52 year old man who went out a mile in a canoe to try to save the child and nearly drowned himself.
Tonight, we were a community of people who couldn’t have been more diverse. The family of the drowned girl are Indian and Pakistani. The beach residents are mostly Scandinavian and Dutch. Christian, on the whole. The family read prayers from the Koran. A holy Muslim man blessed us all. And mostly we stood in a circle with our candles and listened to this close, loving clan describe their lost Sofia. A tomboy who loved soccer and all kinds of animals, a girl so tough she scared the boys. Sofia chose to leave her kayak, believing she could swim to shore,” said one cousin. “She is in a better place,” said another.
I felt blessed to be included – as witness, as a mother who cannot imagine losing a child this way, as a writer. As one of the many watching the beach now, hoping for and dreading seeing a small body in a “black swimsuit with pink details” wash ashore. “We will not leave without our Sofia,” the father told us.
Both parents hugged me good-bye; I was, for a couple hours on the beach, part of this amazing family. Some of you mentioned “glue.”There was abundant “glue” in this bunch – seemed like not just one or two but all of them were the “glue.” I found myself wishing they all were mine to keep. The love they emanated was palpable and extended to so many strangers at a time of such profound suffering. And we returned their love. That was palpable, too.
I could see in their faces how our informal gathering, complete with two dogs wandering in and out of our circle, was giving them strength. I have never before seen faces that glowed with such grief and love in equal measure.
I came away with a whole new vision of what a funeral ritual could be.
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Wow, Jude. Devastating, heartbreaking. So much compassion.
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A beautiful ritual, Jude. Thanks for sharing it.
What is it about death that brings us all together most times? Is it out recognition of our own mortality that most of us keep at bay for most of our lives? I don’t know.
I keep thinking how difficult it must be for that family not to have the body of their daughter to “know” for sure that she has died.
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Bob -Yes, it’s really hard for them. Some of them are still holding onto the hope that she has made it to shore somewhere and just hasn’t been able to alert anyone. One of my neighbors also mentioned that in their religion it’s important to have an actual body to bless and put to rest. I don’t know that that’s so different, actually, from all the rest of us. Death is such a difficult thing to grasp -we need the evidence; we need to see with our own eyes that the fire has gone out all the way.
The police think weather and currents – plus the time she’s been in the water – make today a likely day for her body to wash up.
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As long as a body doesn’t exist, you can hope. That’s what I read in all those cases where a person disappears without a trace, the survivors retain the hope that their loved one will come back.
For me, I didn’t see either my mother or my father from the time of their death until the funeral home visitation. Intellectually I knew they were dead, but I believed it to be the truth when I saw their bodies. Odd, but true.
Seeing the body makes the death a reality for me. It isn’t the same when someone is cremated and you only have an urn and pictures of the living person to look at.
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Jude,
I’m so glad you told us about the ritual by Lake Michigan. I’m trying to get my head around the fact that my good friend Jude is meeting these people who are on national news. That she’s standing there witnessing it, and meeting Sofia’s family, and invited to be a part of their wait. Knowing you (and how much you love being a mother), I can’t think of a better stranger for them to have nearby.
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I really, really like funerals. I’ve considered going to funerals of people I don’t know, but am concerned that would mean I am crossing over into a semi-mentally ill state.
Funerals wake me up. I try to stay conscious in life, but again and again am lulled into apathy or a fog or being busy or being distracted. Funerals don’t let you get by with that.
The exception to this rule is when the death is a young person. Then the sadness of the parents is crushing. Everyone is desperate to support them, and completely unable to. Mainly unable to, anyway. When I was a teenager, our family friends had a 15-year-old son who was killed on a snowmobile. I was 14. I’ll never forget his parents following the casket out of the church. How they could barely walk.
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Artfully done, Bob. This was a pleasure to read. It just carried me along and left me contented with the ways of life.
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Death isn’t supposed to take the young which makes the death of young people so heartbreaking. It’s a “rule”, like the one that no parent should outlive their children which seems like a fairly recent “rule” given the high infant mortality in this country early in our history.
Teri, I don’t think it’s semi-mentally ill to attend the funerals of people you don’t know. I would worry if you started sending flowers to them and inserting yourself in the funeral by giving personal testimonials to the life of the deceased. If you go to watch and listen and come away with a new awareness and appreciation of life. I say, “Go for it.”
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Teri, loved your comment to Jude about not being able to imagine a better stranger to meet. So true.
Also, on loving funerals, that reminds me of a short story my friend Carolyn wrote, main character being a woman who attends funerals of strangers. I wonder if she still has it. You might enjoy reading it.
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Bob, I THINK I remember you and I sitting at opposite ends of the pew at Grandma Patton’s funeral, sobbing. Is that right, or just is it something that I’ve made up in my own history? And correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t Miss Combs preach?
I’d like to see a picture of your mom and dad’s headstone too. But when I get back to the states, you can bet I’ll be making the cemetery rounds.
What I wouldn’t give to be back at Aunt Faye’s one more time with everyone around the table.
But shoot…here it’s almost 9:00. I’d better get off before I end up spending the night roaming the back road between Hemple and Gower.
Love you!!
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OKAY…I’m back! I’m somewhere between Aunt Alice’s, listening to Suzie play his electric guitar and playing on Grandma Patton’s sloping front porch. But I read through the comments again, and you mentioned that we all have stories about our folks that we don’t share. But I’d like to share with your other fans a quick story about you. There are LOTS of them, but this one is about you, mom, and dad.
One Saturday afternoon as I was heading back to Oklahoma, mom was asking me when I’d be back.(It seems like that was the first question she’d ask when I arrived, and the last question as I was leaving.) But this particular weekend, Daddy added something. He said “Ya know, BOBBY comes to see us more than you!!”.
I’m still not sure how to feel about that! 🙂 But I do know that it was a reflection of the deep, and profound love they had for you. And how very much your visits meant to them.
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Randy (aka Jack), I don’t remember you coming to Grandma Patton’s funeral because your parents didn’t know how you would react to a dead body. We should ask Sharon if she remembers
I think you are correct that a woman preached her funeral. I had forgotten that part.
Your parents loved all of you kids. Your sisters would probably tell you that your mom and dad loved you most of all. In part, I think that was due to your being so far away. They worried about you and what might happen to you.
The fact that I went to St. Joseph almost every weekend to see Mom provided me with more opportunities to talk with your mom and dad than you had living abroad.
I’m surprised your dad would say anything like that to you. I always thought a lot of your dad.
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OK you two, I’m here but not sure if I can answer all of your questions.
1. Randy, I’m sure you were there also because who would have watched you during the service?
2. Yes, Miss Combs did the service. She did Grandpa’s as well, but neither of you were born yet for his. She did Grandma Simmon’s too. She was a Missionary in China for many years and did a lot of teaching at the clubs in Gower and Hemple – and probably Easton as well.
3. Dick and I went by Aunt Faye and Uncle Ray’s. The barn and driveway are all thats left of the old place where the big house stood. I actually took pictures to show you and will send them on later.
4. To you both, yes, Dad would have made the remark about Bobbie coming to see them as he had told me the same thing. He knew, Randy that you were far enough away that you couldn’t come up every week end, so don’t take it to heart. Bob, he knew that you liked to come by and that he always wanted to be there for you if you ever needed him for anything as he did for all of us.
5. Bob, the only time Randy was overseas while they were alive was when he was in Japan for two years (?)
Then he was in Southern Missouri, Kansas and Oklahoma. It killed them that Randy couldn’t find a job closer to them, but it gave them places to go on vacations, so they decided to make the best of it. That’s how I got out of being on their “list” when we moved out here.
OK, anything else? You know where I am.
Love you both.
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[…] About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his family. For Memorial Day 2010, we published Desecration Day, Bob’s humorous yet moving piece about a grave decoration day that got a bit out of hand, followed in June by Uncle Howard At The Cemetery. […]
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HI SHARON JUST A LITTLE CORRECTION YOUR AUNT FAYE & UNCLE RAY ARE NOT BURIED IN THE BOWEN CEMETERY ON 6 HIGHWAY. THEY ARE BURIED IN THE BLAKELEY CEMETERY JUST NORTH WEST OF WHERE WE ARE LIVING NOW!
LELA
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Opps! Sorry, Lela.
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[…] About Bob: Bob Chrisman is a Kansas City, Missouri writer who frequently writes memoir about his family. His last pieces for red Ravine were Exit The Telephone, Desecration Day, and Uncle Howard At The Cemetery. […]
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[…] at the dinners he prepared. He was an excellent cook. I will never forget his laugh. Bob contributed work to red Ravine and continued to post practices with me after others fell away. I could count on him. Today, […]
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