In Memoriam

On Sunday, I went to a funeral for a man I'd never met. It was a strangely moving experience.

Before you start thinking I'm some kind of lunatic funeral crasher, let me clarify that I went as a representative for my mother, who had grown up with this man--indeed, was his first cousin--and who was unable to attend because she lives 750 miles away. She was deeply saddened by the passing of one of the four boy cousins (all brothers whose names started with D) with whom she remembered sharing so many lake vacations, holidays, and other good times. And as the funeral was only half an hour from me, I got a sitter for the kids, arrayed myself decently in black, and went to pay my respects and pass on my mother's warm sympathies to the three remaining D brothers.

I didn't know what to expect. I fretted over what to wear--not because I thought someone would notice but because I didn't want anyone to notice. I wanted to blend in. I didn't want anyone looking askance and thinking, "who is that woman, and why is she here?"

I needn't have worried. This man was beloved. The room was packed. I sat in the back row, which was the only spot left when I arrived ten minutes early. By the time the service started, people were standing in the aisles. It is extremely strange to attend a funeral for someone you haven't met, even stranger to realize that you do not know a soul in the room and cannot trade stories about "Pops" or "Coach" or "The Old S.O.B." or the deceased by any other name because you have only ever heard his name in the context of family stories of your mother's girlhood. Stories in which he was the peripheral player rather than on center stage.

This particular funeral was study in contradictions, implicit testimony to the character of a man whom I know only through eulogies.

Most poignant: three tall men dressed in suits of grays that complemented their thick silvery hair, standing very still, side by side with arms around each other's waists, their backs to the growing crowd. Heads bowed a little, they looked into their brother's casket, held each other a bit tighter. Perhaps they murmured something. I could neither hear them nor see their faces. But those three broad backs, hunched ever so slightly in anguish, quietly bidding their goodbyes actually made me well up. Without knowing them or their brother, I nonetheless found their grief completely recognizable. The eloquent expression of those mute backs for the long minutes they stood there said more than any words could about the closeness of the four D brothers. Perhaps not surprisingly, none of these three brothers could find a voice to stand and speak once the formal service began.

By contrast, the service itself was periodically irreverent as, I gather, the man himself had been. Not one but two speakers quoted his favorite line: "Well, I'll just kiss a fat man's ass!" And they clarified that they were quoting this line not just because he had favored the expression but also because none of his other favorite phrases were suitable for quotation in mixed company. One friend who had known the man since Kindergarten in fact described as "poetic" this man's ability to let fly an "effortless string of more four-letter words" than most people even know. Apparently, the deceased (who had coached every Little League and sports team in existence) was once ejected from the sidelines for two games for challenging the referee too vigorously. His solution? Get Army surplus walkie talkies and spend the next two games high in the bleachers cursing at fellow spectators and telling them to "shut up! I'm trying to call a play here!" The way the story was told was hilarious. Truly.

After the service, I introduced myself to a second cousin I've never met--a son who had just given a funny, touching, warm memorial for his father. I shook hands with the three D brothers, was introduced to wives, expressed my sympathies. The D brother to whom my mother had been closest stood and hugged me tight, told me he had been looking for me, seemed so genuinely pleased to see me there. He held my hand in both of his for a long minute, his skin soft, fingers thick and nobby, his thumb making small circles on the back of my hand as he clasped on warmly. The gesture was startlingly reminiscent of my own grandfather's hands--the silent expression of affection from generations of men unaccustomed to speaking their hearts aloud. It was as if he was trying to embrace his way back to his childhood with my mother, to absorb through my hands her long-distance sympathies. He promised, with a note of honest pleasure, that he would phone her the next day. I was extremely grateful I had come.

When I walked outside, the sun was shining brightly, the snow was melting, there seemed a momentary promise of Spring in the air. I had to sit and compose myself in my car before I trusted myself to drive. The oldest son's words were ringing in my ears, "Kids, if you have parents, go home and hug them. Tell them you love them. You may not always have the chance. Just do it today."

Personally, I think it's worth doing this with your kids every day too. And so, I did.