Family is expected to be at the funeral home at 8:30 am. Once again I must rouse sleeping kids and urge them into consciousness so we can get going. At this point, I am not fussing about arriving on time. I know my siblings will all be there early and I had my time last night. The ride to the funeral home is quiet. Everyone looks shiny and nice. It soothes my heart that they took time to dress up.
I have no expectations concerning the service and am surprised at the number of people who came. After several conversations, I realize that many of them were unable to come to Dad's services (right after Christmas on a day of terrible weather) and for them this is a double closure. That is welcome. I am also surprised that a number of people ask me if I am going to speak. I decline repeatedly. My older brother has asked for that privilege and I do not wish to step on his toes. The service is simple and filled with comfort. 2 of Mom's favorite hymns (Blessed Assurance and Abide With Me) bookend the proceedings.
Then the pastor invites anyone who would like to say a few words to come forward, beginning with family members. Pete steps up. As always, his words are thoughtful and significant. Then I am urged once again to speak. I have nothing prepared. I have said my tribute on my blog. But I step forward and just talk from my heart. I am followed by other brothers and sisters (there are 8 of us) and several members of the church Dad last pastored.
The story we laughed about most was told by one of the deacons. He had brought Dad a pickup truck load of wood for their wood stove. As he and Dad were unloading the truck, Mom - in her early 80's - came out wielding an axe and started splitting the wood. The deacon, concerned that a skinny little old woman was doing this hard physical labor, asked Dad if Lillian ought to be splitting the firewood. Dad answered, "Well, she's a little slower these days but she manages to get the job done!" We all roared heartily over that story. It sounds just like Mom. And Dad.
Despite a momentary driving rain, we managed to get Mom safely planted beside her beloved James in the Albany Rural Cemetery. I was able to locate my newly placed headstone and see how nice it looks. I realized that Mom was the one who placed red geraniums on Gram Appleby's grave every year at Memorial Day. Who will take on this family duty now that Mom is gone? I will try to do it. I can't promise, but I would like to.
I had already planned to stop at my son Michael's grave and put some small gesture of my remembrance there (he is buried in Powell Wiswall Cemetery about an hour north). I do have a bit more incentive to take on this kind of task than the rest of my siblings. Now that my boys are all out of the house with Drew leaving for RIT in the fall, it will give me something to do! I suppose I can make a regular holiday out of it and maybe even do some camping in the Adirondacks. We shall see. Meanwhile, we siblings head for the Cheesecake Factory to dine together and celebrate Mom.
I have no expectations concerning the service and am surprised at the number of people who came. After several conversations, I realize that many of them were unable to come to Dad's services (right after Christmas on a day of terrible weather) and for them this is a double closure. That is welcome. I am also surprised that a number of people ask me if I am going to speak. I decline repeatedly. My older brother has asked for that privilege and I do not wish to step on his toes. The service is simple and filled with comfort. 2 of Mom's favorite hymns (Blessed Assurance and Abide With Me) bookend the proceedings.
Then the pastor invites anyone who would like to say a few words to come forward, beginning with family members. Pete steps up. As always, his words are thoughtful and significant. Then I am urged once again to speak. I have nothing prepared. I have said my tribute on my blog. But I step forward and just talk from my heart. I am followed by other brothers and sisters (there are 8 of us) and several members of the church Dad last pastored.
The story we laughed about most was told by one of the deacons. He had brought Dad a pickup truck load of wood for their wood stove. As he and Dad were unloading the truck, Mom - in her early 80's - came out wielding an axe and started splitting the wood. The deacon, concerned that a skinny little old woman was doing this hard physical labor, asked Dad if Lillian ought to be splitting the firewood. Dad answered, "Well, she's a little slower these days but she manages to get the job done!" We all roared heartily over that story. It sounds just like Mom. And Dad.
Despite a momentary driving rain, we managed to get Mom safely planted beside her beloved James in the Albany Rural Cemetery. I was able to locate my newly placed headstone and see how nice it looks. I realized that Mom was the one who placed red geraniums on Gram Appleby's grave every year at Memorial Day. Who will take on this family duty now that Mom is gone? I will try to do it. I can't promise, but I would like to.
I had already planned to stop at my son Michael's grave and put some small gesture of my remembrance there (he is buried in Powell Wiswall Cemetery about an hour north). I do have a bit more incentive to take on this kind of task than the rest of my siblings. Now that my boys are all out of the house with Drew leaving for RIT in the fall, it will give me something to do! I suppose I can make a regular holiday out of it and maybe even do some camping in the Adirondacks. We shall see. Meanwhile, we siblings head for the Cheesecake Factory to dine together and celebrate Mom.
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