Another Dark Day
We have them. If you are human that is. Funerals are an
unplanned family reunion. We see kin that typically shy away from one another.
I had not planned on attending a funeral during this trip, thus had not packed
a suit. I’m not a fashion statement, however; I’m always concerned if I have
dressed in the appropriate mourning attire for a funeral. But, if you attend a
gathering in
My cousin’s wife had passed away. She was only 60. A life shortened by a long-term addiction to nicotine. I’m always disbelieving about the power of smokes. Despite warnings on the packages, seeing friends and family fall to the ravages of them, others continue to hack though another drag. There was no church service, only graveside – her choice.
The dark red two-sided tent was in place and chairs for the grieving family members readied with a red velvet cloth. Outside the tent, friends and kin greeted one another with a smile and handshake. Whispers of “how is he doing” passed from person to person. Others questions of “How you doing?” “How you been?” “How are the cows?” “You got any spare hay?” were moving through the crowd. You see, this is ranching country. One thing these fine folks have in common besides blood and feelings is concern for their living: raising cattle.
The family arrived from sharing lunch at the local Baptist church. They took their appointed places under the tent, facing the woman they loved. As the services started, the crowd was asked to move in closer. Before, I could see distinct bands. There was the wall of attendees that crowded close behind the chairs. Another five feet back was another human divider; with one more another five feet or so back. I was wondering what caused these divisions. We humans are funny. The crowd followed orders and moved in.
I have not experienced many services outside the Southern Baptist funeral. Baptists, like others, have a predefined format they follow. And they never forget to mention food. Either referring to the meal they just took part in at the church, or in future needs of the family. The words food and preacher are tantamount in a Baptist church. I can remember one preacher often referring to fried chicken, mash potatoes, gravy and ice tea being his favorite Sunday-after-church dinner, then asking whose house he should be going to. I wonder if that is how Church’s Chicken got their name – trying to bait in preachers.
Denim was everywhere. There were old men with long, dry, dusty trips shown on their faces, women trying to make it look like it has been a short one. Years of working cattle all-day, cutting and putting up hay in the heat of summer with only a straw Stetson and a long sleeve, snap button, shirt for protection from the damaging rays from above. Their work started at daybreak and ended at night break. There was no sunscreen with a fancy number on it in their day. You see bandages covering areas where to most recent skin cancer had been removed. I wonder if the farmers – dairy farmers of north have fewer spots to remove since their work often involved a parlor.
Looking around, I see my only blood uncle. He is my father’s baby brother. I see my father’s face in his: they are family. My father’s sister is there. She is the baby of all. There are only three out of six still living. I’m glad my father is one of them. This is a sad and happy time.
Once the service started, more felt Stetsons were in hands
than there are casinos between
Funerals, at least in the Baptist church, are for the living. The preacher does his best to make the family’s trip a little less sad. They speak of the good the person brought to others, how they will meet another day, and how proud you should be of the life that has gone before you. For me, having a guest book is the tell-all for whom the funeral serves. There was one to record your attendance. It was on a podium outside the tent. The wind was blowing strongly out of the south and would flip the pages of the book. Like the pages of life – there is a beginning and an end, nothing to stop it. Turn the podium another way and the wind would find the pages – nothing to stop it.
You will always have plenty of prayers and music at a service. Some of the music was recorded, one song was sung by an elderly gentleman. If the service had been in at the church, there would have been some good folks playing guitars, fiddles, drums and piano while singing. The small church is what I would call – progressive for a Baptist church. Typically, the only instruments you see are pianos and organs. It is good to see changes.
Once the preachers had finished, it was time to greet the grieving and saddened family members. They stay seated in the red velvet, covered chairs as wishers of good walked by to share in their loss. Another dilemma of mine – what do you say? I asked a friend years ago what he said. His answer was simple: “God bless you”. So, that has become my main verbiage. I do add a few other words of encouragement or of allied sadness at times. I wait my turn to pass my condolences. I see the casket is open. I look at life gone too young. You can see what the savages had done to her face. Years of lighting one up, taking a smoke break, smoking one with a cup of coffee had produced a well pronounced alteration. But what we cannot see was the taker. I pass through the line, shaking hands and hugging, feeling sadness in my heart.
As we disbursed, I could smell another life being shortened. You have to wonder.
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