Warning- Long Ass Post
Fun With Funerals!
I've put off this post for so long that the stream of thoughts that were in my head are now gone, and writing from cold notes is awkward; all that made it easier to put off writing, and then put off some more. To top it off, the notes I wrote were with one of those tiny, crappy church pencils, too light on a service pamphlet that's on grey paper.
At the end of January, our family had the funeral for my grandfather on my dad's side. We drove to Phoenix for a long weekend, and got to spend time with family I hadn't seen in a while. Each time I visit with this set of cousins, I'm impressed with how together we all are, considering how fucked up our parents were. I'm sure we're each fucked up in our own way, but it seems as if most of us can communicate in a way our parents could not; at least, I'm hoping that's the case.
The funeral was at my grandfather's church, so I guess I should have expected at least some religiousness to be involved, but since I'm organized-religion-averse, maybe I'm just more sensitive to it. My day to day life is in my little liberal bubble, rarely interacting with "religious" people, and living in southern California makes it that much easier to stay within my comfort zone, among people who, on Sunday morning, but on their flips flops and go to the beach, or dig around in their year, or drive to the sand dunes and drive their Bugs around. I digress.
The pastor started it off with a welcome and prayer, and then my dad did the eulogy, which he'd been thinking about for about a week or two. I thought he was going to just use notes, but he had written it all out, and then winged it a bit, which worked out fine. He threw some humor in there, and talked about my grandfather's military history* (that I'd had no idea about), and did touch on some of the difficult parts of his father as a parent, but painted them as openings for the kids to learn and excel. Apparently, his expectations were very high for his kids and their school achievement (in my opinion, at the expense of their development as genuine, caring, affectionate, and emotionally intelligent human beings). My dad's voice cracked a bit at the last part.** In all, a well-delivered eulogy. My dad can have a Bill Clinton-like chemistry sometimes.
After the eulogy were a couple of songs sung with the organ, a cousin did a scripture reading, and then the "Remembering" part started. Anyone could stand up and share memories of the family or of Papa (the cousins' name for our grandfather; our grandmother was called Mama, prounounced "ma'am-ah"). I had told me dad the week before that I wouldn't be doing that part, because the only memory I had as a kid of Papa was of the recurring dream I had of he and Mama chasing me around their house, and not in a fun, playing kind of way. So, no. After non-family talked some, one of my aunts stood up and talked for a really long time, and actually, I kid you not, used the word "God" in place of "Dad" once. Something about sitting in God's lap. It was very telling.
What struck me about this portion of the service was that all these people who were not related to me stood up and talked about my grandfather in a way I had never thought of him: he was a teacher to random people, he was giving and charitable to kids down the street. Okay, teaching and having high standards is important for your kids and grandkids, but accepting your kids for who they are is also important, and he was the kind of guy who, if you brought home an A, he'd ask where the A+ was. I can't relate to that. One of my cousins had a great story he told us the night before the funeral about this past winter, right before Pap fell and broke his hip, he'd walk around my father's house (where he was visiting) in his underwear. He went out the front door and said goodbye to his grandson in droopy tighty whities. Funny stuff, but my cousin didn't share that one at the Remembering. Another of my cousins stood up and had a wonderful story to tell, but she lost it and choked up, and I choked up, and I got to blame her later. Good times.
Next came the most cringeworthy moment, a "performance" of "Touch of the Master's Hand," which was sung by a man with a fairly weak voice to a prerecorded and insipid song that seemed to have little relation to the funeral. It was bizarre. The song was about a violin auction, and reminded me constantly of "Devil Went Down to Georgia," except that song was ten times better. Then the organist performed "Ave Maria," which was fine.
The last section, which should have been a nice wrap up and recap actually made me angry. The pastor, at some point, mentioned David and the Ark, which made me envision the pastor's face melting, but then he started in on a bit of a sermon, using Papa as an example, and eventually asked us: Are you honorable? Do you honor God the way Jim did?
You know, I get that my grandfather was a religious person, and I can understand that his 4 kids probably agreed that a religious ceremody would be suitable, but, as in any family, there are bound to be people who are not religious, or whose religions differ from the deceased's. Is a funeral really the time to challenge everyone in their own faith? Who is that guy to ask me if I'm honorable or if I honor God? Dude, I live a good life, do right by others, typically, and have my own brand of faith, so FUCK YOU if you think that you get to ask me if I honor God, or to imply that the way Papa "honored" God is the way it "should" be. Ron had the same thoughts I did.
I did talk to my brother about that later, and he commented that Papa was a religious man, and maybe in those terms it wasn't so out of line. I don't know. What do you guys think?
My brother looked very handsome in his suit. My cousin Nancy hadn't seen him in so long that when he got to the church, she saw him and thought, "Who's that?" in an approving Joey Tribbiani kind of way.
The next day, after we all respectfully picked over my grandfather's stuff, I laid on the bed in the room my dad was staying in, and talked to him a bit about what Papa was like to me, and that I had never felt a strong inclination to know about his life (which I accept a lot of that is my responsibility), because he wasn't a warm person when I was young; he would answer a question with a question, and not ever say "I love you" or express pride or anything else that I can remember. And, at 34 years old, I surround myself with people who are emotionally sharing or reachable, and to have to work too hard to pry means that person's not really going to be that compatible with me. In response my dad said that with some people you have to dig and work to get to know them, but I couldn't reconcile that idea with who I am; how are you supposed to know who to dig into? Isn't the digging, with no indication that the person's willing to be dug into, kind of rude beyond a certain surface point? And I'm a digger, don't get me wrong. Ask rusty.
* My grandfather was on the USS Chevalier when it got sunk by a torpedo. The ship broke in half, with the front part aerodynamically still moving forward, and the back half taking on water like crazy. My grandfather was in a front compartment of the back half when the ship was hit. Out of all the people in the compartment, he was one of two who survived, having been pulled by someone to safety by his hair. After that, he worked on super secret enjineering projects that had to do with guidance systems and advanced missles that we use even today. He couldn't talk about it, though, so he never really did, until fairly recently. After retiring from the Navy, he ran an engineering lab at the University of Arizona.
** When we were shopping around for contractors to do a sunroom on the back of our house, I bet Ron the dollars in my wallet (like, $7, which is a lot more than I usually have in cash) that the quote would be a certain amount, and he bet a higher amount. The person closer would win. I won. So, a week later, when I found out that my dad was doing the eulogy, I told Ron that he could get his $ back from be by betting against my dad crying during the eulogy. What? It was in my brain, and popped out my mouth. It never got to the actual betting phase.
More posts in the days to come, regarding dreams about famous people, hypnotherapy, cars, and home stuff.
I've put off this post for so long that the stream of thoughts that were in my head are now gone, and writing from cold notes is awkward; all that made it easier to put off writing, and then put off some more. To top it off, the notes I wrote were with one of those tiny, crappy church pencils, too light on a service pamphlet that's on grey paper.
At the end of January, our family had the funeral for my grandfather on my dad's side. We drove to Phoenix for a long weekend, and got to spend time with family I hadn't seen in a while. Each time I visit with this set of cousins, I'm impressed with how together we all are, considering how fucked up our parents were. I'm sure we're each fucked up in our own way, but it seems as if most of us can communicate in a way our parents could not; at least, I'm hoping that's the case.
The funeral was at my grandfather's church, so I guess I should have expected at least some religiousness to be involved, but since I'm organized-religion-averse, maybe I'm just more sensitive to it. My day to day life is in my little liberal bubble, rarely interacting with "religious" people, and living in southern California makes it that much easier to stay within my comfort zone, among people who, on Sunday morning, but on their flips flops and go to the beach, or dig around in their year, or drive to the sand dunes and drive their Bugs around. I digress.
The pastor started it off with a welcome and prayer, and then my dad did the eulogy, which he'd been thinking about for about a week or two. I thought he was going to just use notes, but he had written it all out, and then winged it a bit, which worked out fine. He threw some humor in there, and talked about my grandfather's military history* (that I'd had no idea about), and did touch on some of the difficult parts of his father as a parent, but painted them as openings for the kids to learn and excel. Apparently, his expectations were very high for his kids and their school achievement (in my opinion, at the expense of their development as genuine, caring, affectionate, and emotionally intelligent human beings). My dad's voice cracked a bit at the last part.** In all, a well-delivered eulogy. My dad can have a Bill Clinton-like chemistry sometimes.
After the eulogy were a couple of songs sung with the organ, a cousin did a scripture reading, and then the "Remembering" part started. Anyone could stand up and share memories of the family or of Papa (the cousins' name for our grandfather; our grandmother was called Mama, prounounced "ma'am-ah"). I had told me dad the week before that I wouldn't be doing that part, because the only memory I had as a kid of Papa was of the recurring dream I had of he and Mama chasing me around their house, and not in a fun, playing kind of way. So, no. After non-family talked some, one of my aunts stood up and talked for a really long time, and actually, I kid you not, used the word "God" in place of "Dad" once. Something about sitting in God's lap. It was very telling.
What struck me about this portion of the service was that all these people who were not related to me stood up and talked about my grandfather in a way I had never thought of him: he was a teacher to random people, he was giving and charitable to kids down the street. Okay, teaching and having high standards is important for your kids and grandkids, but accepting your kids for who they are is also important, and he was the kind of guy who, if you brought home an A, he'd ask where the A+ was. I can't relate to that. One of my cousins had a great story he told us the night before the funeral about this past winter, right before Pap fell and broke his hip, he'd walk around my father's house (where he was visiting) in his underwear. He went out the front door and said goodbye to his grandson in droopy tighty whities. Funny stuff, but my cousin didn't share that one at the Remembering. Another of my cousins stood up and had a wonderful story to tell, but she lost it and choked up, and I choked up, and I got to blame her later. Good times.
Next came the most cringeworthy moment, a "performance" of "Touch of the Master's Hand," which was sung by a man with a fairly weak voice to a prerecorded and insipid song that seemed to have little relation to the funeral. It was bizarre. The song was about a violin auction, and reminded me constantly of "Devil Went Down to Georgia," except that song was ten times better. Then the organist performed "Ave Maria," which was fine.
The last section, which should have been a nice wrap up and recap actually made me angry. The pastor, at some point, mentioned David and the Ark, which made me envision the pastor's face melting, but then he started in on a bit of a sermon, using Papa as an example, and eventually asked us: Are you honorable? Do you honor God the way Jim did?
You know, I get that my grandfather was a religious person, and I can understand that his 4 kids probably agreed that a religious ceremody would be suitable, but, as in any family, there are bound to be people who are not religious, or whose religions differ from the deceased's. Is a funeral really the time to challenge everyone in their own faith? Who is that guy to ask me if I'm honorable or if I honor God? Dude, I live a good life, do right by others, typically, and have my own brand of faith, so FUCK YOU if you think that you get to ask me if I honor God, or to imply that the way Papa "honored" God is the way it "should" be. Ron had the same thoughts I did.
I did talk to my brother about that later, and he commented that Papa was a religious man, and maybe in those terms it wasn't so out of line. I don't know. What do you guys think?
My brother looked very handsome in his suit. My cousin Nancy hadn't seen him in so long that when he got to the church, she saw him and thought, "Who's that?" in an approving Joey Tribbiani kind of way.
The next day, after we all respectfully picked over my grandfather's stuff, I laid on the bed in the room my dad was staying in, and talked to him a bit about what Papa was like to me, and that I had never felt a strong inclination to know about his life (which I accept a lot of that is my responsibility), because he wasn't a warm person when I was young; he would answer a question with a question, and not ever say "I love you" or express pride or anything else that I can remember. And, at 34 years old, I surround myself with people who are emotionally sharing or reachable, and to have to work too hard to pry means that person's not really going to be that compatible with me. In response my dad said that with some people you have to dig and work to get to know them, but I couldn't reconcile that idea with who I am; how are you supposed to know who to dig into? Isn't the digging, with no indication that the person's willing to be dug into, kind of rude beyond a certain surface point? And I'm a digger, don't get me wrong. Ask rusty.
* My grandfather was on the USS Chevalier when it got sunk by a torpedo. The ship broke in half, with the front part aerodynamically still moving forward, and the back half taking on water like crazy. My grandfather was in a front compartment of the back half when the ship was hit. Out of all the people in the compartment, he was one of two who survived, having been pulled by someone to safety by his hair. After that, he worked on super secret enjineering projects that had to do with guidance systems and advanced missles that we use even today. He couldn't talk about it, though, so he never really did, until fairly recently. After retiring from the Navy, he ran an engineering lab at the University of Arizona.
** When we were shopping around for contractors to do a sunroom on the back of our house, I bet Ron the dollars in my wallet (like, $7, which is a lot more than I usually have in cash) that the quote would be a certain amount, and he bet a higher amount. The person closer would win. I won. So, a week later, when I found out that my dad was doing the eulogy, I told Ron that he could get his $ back from be by betting against my dad crying during the eulogy. What? It was in my brain, and popped out my mouth. It never got to the actual betting phase.
More posts in the days to come, regarding dreams about famous people, hypnotherapy, cars, and home stuff.