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GreenAcorn of Simmer
Aug. 7th, 2019 10:19 pmI thought it would be good to announce that I'm back, even though I don't yet know what to say about the whole experience. We got home just before 11 last night. We came home on the eastern route, via Indianapolis, which of course we hit just at rush hour. Time and space are warped around major metro areas, such that whenever a traveler must pass through them, it is always rush hour. And we started late, because we stopped to visit my aunt and uncle in the nursing home on the way out.
My friend the Nonesuch has suggested that this chapter of my memoirs should be called "Late to My Mother's Funeral." And I was. What can I say--we panicked. First, the schedule of the day did not work out the way I envisioned it, because Other People. Second, the Sparrowhawk had given instructions to all the kids on how to reach the graveyard. So I inferred, mistakenly as it turned out, that he knew how to get there himself, and he was driving because I was in my good clothes and clutching a hat and a jar of flowers that I had been keeping in the cooler so they'd still be fresh for the occasion. I knew the graveyard was down the road from the church. But we didn't go quite far enough before freaking out and turning around, then getting on the wrong road through the cornfields, which went for quite a way before there was a place to turn around. Meanwhile, the kids were texting me, but my phone would not respond, because there is no phone reception in large parts of Jersey County. And you also cannot look up maps, because there is often no wifi, and some of the roads aren't on the map anyway. So, after driving 500 miles and arriving a day early, I was 15 minutes late to the crucial event.
Everyone was standing around on the hillside under the canopy supplied by the funeral home, or sitting in the folding chairs, and there I was, the oldest child and the last car in line. I growled "Well this is just typical," then took a deep breath, assumed the appropriate expression, and went to greet the guests. it may have been for the best, for the Fireman, Queenie's husband, sat next to my aunt before I got there, and it was to him that she said sternly, under the impression the he was my husband, "Where were you at Mass yesterday?!" He replied that he had only arrived that afternoon, which was true--for him--so I appreciate his taking that bullet for me. In addition to my aunt, one of my cousins was there, and my father's 80-year-old cousin and his wife had also come. They'd asked their son to drive them over. I was so touched by that. Hazel actually had to stay in the car with the AC on, because she was too frail to be out in the hot sun for long, but they came. I had a chance to talk to them briefly and tell them how much it meant to me.
My mother's ashes were in a pretty silver box that looked as if it held something precious. They were surrounded by all kinds of keepsakes, including the red toy sportscar that a friend had given her. They had laughed over it and called it their getaway car, always pretending that one day they were going to buy a car and break out of the retirement home. She finally made her getaway. I left my poor offering--sage, lavender, and yarrow, and one red rose, all from my own yard. The service was short, sweet, and appropriate. After that, the rest of the crew milled around looking at tombstones but I had to go sit in the car like Hazel. I had been having visions that I would just fall down and not be able to leave her. So I removed myself before there was an episode.
I had been hoping to feel better than I did afterwards. It was a long hard day even post-funeral, in which inconvenient things continued to happen and problematic people continued to behave problematically, but it finally ended. The good part was that we were surrounded by so many beautiful young people--all the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren came--and of course the very most beautiful to me were my own. They comforted me greatly. And the river country was the other good thing. It is such a mysterious place. It slips through my grasp every time I go there. I can never quite embrace it, never quite fathom it. But it is my own and I belong to it as well. As we drove away yesterday, en route to see my uncle and aunt for what may well be the last time--they are 94 and 96 now--I saw an eagle flying high above us. Queenie always thinks the eagles are my father visiting. He always told us, "Take care of your mother," and we did. The last thing I will ever be able to do for her was to bring her home and leave her by his side.
My friend the Nonesuch has suggested that this chapter of my memoirs should be called "Late to My Mother's Funeral." And I was. What can I say--we panicked. First, the schedule of the day did not work out the way I envisioned it, because Other People. Second, the Sparrowhawk had given instructions to all the kids on how to reach the graveyard. So I inferred, mistakenly as it turned out, that he knew how to get there himself, and he was driving because I was in my good clothes and clutching a hat and a jar of flowers that I had been keeping in the cooler so they'd still be fresh for the occasion. I knew the graveyard was down the road from the church. But we didn't go quite far enough before freaking out and turning around, then getting on the wrong road through the cornfields, which went for quite a way before there was a place to turn around. Meanwhile, the kids were texting me, but my phone would not respond, because there is no phone reception in large parts of Jersey County. And you also cannot look up maps, because there is often no wifi, and some of the roads aren't on the map anyway. So, after driving 500 miles and arriving a day early, I was 15 minutes late to the crucial event.
Everyone was standing around on the hillside under the canopy supplied by the funeral home, or sitting in the folding chairs, and there I was, the oldest child and the last car in line. I growled "Well this is just typical," then took a deep breath, assumed the appropriate expression, and went to greet the guests. it may have been for the best, for the Fireman, Queenie's husband, sat next to my aunt before I got there, and it was to him that she said sternly, under the impression the he was my husband, "Where were you at Mass yesterday?!" He replied that he had only arrived that afternoon, which was true--for him--so I appreciate his taking that bullet for me. In addition to my aunt, one of my cousins was there, and my father's 80-year-old cousin and his wife had also come. They'd asked their son to drive them over. I was so touched by that. Hazel actually had to stay in the car with the AC on, because she was too frail to be out in the hot sun for long, but they came. I had a chance to talk to them briefly and tell them how much it meant to me.
My mother's ashes were in a pretty silver box that looked as if it held something precious. They were surrounded by all kinds of keepsakes, including the red toy sportscar that a friend had given her. They had laughed over it and called it their getaway car, always pretending that one day they were going to buy a car and break out of the retirement home. She finally made her getaway. I left my poor offering--sage, lavender, and yarrow, and one red rose, all from my own yard. The service was short, sweet, and appropriate. After that, the rest of the crew milled around looking at tombstones but I had to go sit in the car like Hazel. I had been having visions that I would just fall down and not be able to leave her. So I removed myself before there was an episode.
I had been hoping to feel better than I did afterwards. It was a long hard day even post-funeral, in which inconvenient things continued to happen and problematic people continued to behave problematically, but it finally ended. The good part was that we were surrounded by so many beautiful young people--all the grandchildren and the great-grandchildren came--and of course the very most beautiful to me were my own. They comforted me greatly. And the river country was the other good thing. It is such a mysterious place. It slips through my grasp every time I go there. I can never quite embrace it, never quite fathom it. But it is my own and I belong to it as well. As we drove away yesterday, en route to see my uncle and aunt for what may well be the last time--they are 94 and 96 now--I saw an eagle flying high above us. Queenie always thinks the eagles are my father visiting. He always told us, "Take care of your mother," and we did. The last thing I will ever be able to do for her was to bring her home and leave her by his side.
