Funeral for a Friend

Here’s today’s addition to the Sunday Story Series.

My Bags Are Packed

This weekend I did something I haven’t done since – maybe 2017?  My cousin died last month in Florida, and this weekend was his memorial service.  I made a promise to him, three years ago, that I would give the eulogy at his funeral.  So this is it, I’m on the road (again?). 

It’s the age of COVID, and Florida isn’t the best place to go.  But a promise is a promise, even now. My first thought was to drive down.  That way, I would be contained in my own vehicle, able to control interactions with folks.  But that’s a problem – Tampa is about 1000 miles from Pataskala.  That’s a fifteen hour drive, by myself.  And that’s not the biggest concern.  Tampa (and back) is 130 gallons of gas.  At a simple $3.00 a gallon (and it’s more) that puts the cost at around $400.  So that’s two long days of driving, and twice the cost of an airplane ticket.

There I was, standing room only at Gate A6 in John Glenn International Airport of Columbus, Ohio.  My flight is scheduled to leave at 7:10 am.  That doesn’t sound so bad, if I were subbing at the high school I would be in the classroom by now.  But that’s not how it works.

 On The Road Again

It’s been a long time since I’ve flown, but some things haven’t changed.  Let’s see:  get to the airport an hour and a half before the flight to park the car, ride the shuttle, check my bag and get through security.  As always, when you get there early, that all happens really fast – and I’m standing in line at the airport Starbucks by 6:10.  But – cut things close, and it’s a late parking shuttle, they can’t find your ticket, the line at security is into the concourse, and, “…sir, step onto the second mat for a ‘personal’ security check”.  So better early than late.

All of that means that my alarm was set for 4:15 am.  But the dogs didn’t see it that way.  When the coffee pot went off by itself at four, our watchful Australian Shepherd mix KeeLie knew that wasn’t right.  So she alerted us all, that “what-the-Hell is going on” bark, that got three of the other dogs to join in the chorus.  So we all got up a little early, including Jenn who was looking forward to me sneaking out the door and some early peace and quiet.

Almost four years since I’ve flown.  I was on the way to the airport, going through a mental checklist.  Driver’s License – oh I did pay the extra money to have a “National” card, so I don’t need my passport.  Mask – and backup mask – and backup to the backup mask – and three more in my luggage:  I’m not going to be THAT guy on the plane.  The gatekeeper just announced that you don’t have to wear a mask – they’ll just bring in the “guys” to remove you and make you a viral “star” for fifteen seconds.  Can I still take my Starbucks on the plane with me?  Can I drink it when I do?  Lots of rules have changed since the last time we flew to New York City with our friends.

Who Are You

And it’s Southwest Airlines with what we used to call “Festival Seating” in the concerts days.  It means there are no assigned seats – everyone just gets on and finds a place.  150 passengers for 153 seats, no COVID distancing here; it’s just like the good old days.  I was boarding order B, number 42.  That’s basically the last person on the plane – but somehow there was an aisle seat left. 

The trip to Tampa was uneventful – read a few paragraphs about the Civil War in the American Southwest, then sleep for fifteen minutes.  Arrive, stand in line for an hour to get the rental car, then hangout and wait for the rest of the family to come in from Cleveland.

Celebrate Good Times

Funerals are always strange.  Of course they are sad, the missing person at the party is obvious.  Most of the funerals I’ve gone to recently have been older folks, so while there’s always sorrow, there’s not the sharp, cutting loss of a younger person.  And they have all the formulas of a more “normal” activity:  food, drink, introduction, conversation,  and toasts to the lost and the bereaved.  In short – it’s a party by some other name.

And the process of “funeral” has another purpose:  distraction.  Those closest are forced to deal with all the ceremony, the process, the “party” planning.  So here near Tampa the “party” started Friday evening and will go on through Monday, when finally, despite Southwest Airlines best attempts to strand everyone here, they’ll all go home.

My departed cousin was an interesting man (I wrote about him soon after his death several weeks ago – My Cousin Brendan).   He lived his life in chapters – growing up in England, coming to Cincinnati, a marriage in Chicago, and his final chapter remarried to Mary in Tampa.  The attendees at the service were from the three America chapters, and most were unaware of the other sections.  You could hear the “oh I didn’t know that” even in the church, a “High Episcopal” service complete with mass and the priests sprinkling holy water, the “aspergillum”  

Finnegan’s Wake

My cousin was a well-loved member of the congregation, and his wife stood by him in his long final illness.  You could feel the support for Mary from the two Fathers who led the church, and all the members who provided the after-service lunch.

The head minister is named “Father Ray”, a man of Asian ancestry.  The small church is built on a peninsula between two roads, and the site was an Episcopal Church since the late 1800’s.  The founder of the congregation is buried in the churchyard, a monument marking his grave.  He was a Civil War veteran, a Captain in Robert E. Lee’s Army of Virginia.  As Father Ray said, Confederate or not, he was a good man.  He gave the land to the church and built the first chapel.  

Every Confederate Memorial Day, a “Rebel” flag appears at the foot of the grave.  As Father Ray told me the story, members of the congregation wonder why he allows the flag to stay for a while.  The Father said, “…they’re simply honoring the dead.  Besides, the Captain and others in the church graveyard don’t seem too upset that their Church is now run by the ‘Asian Mafia’.”   

Our family descends from Ireland.  At Saturday’s dinner it was no surprise that Irish tradition was followed.  The Jameson’s whiskey was the “holy water” of the evening, and as befits Brendan’s English public school education, three cheers were made for the deceased: Hip-Hip, Hooray; Hip-Hip Hooray; Hip-Hip, Hooray.  There’s a cheer for Mary as well – her long struggle is over too.

It’s early Sunday morning.  I got a 6 am wakeup call, despite the Jameson’s.  Southwest cancelled my flight; now instead of a straight shot home, I’m headed out five hours earlier to Dallas to connect to John Glenn.  Hopefully they don’t cancel any more flights today.

• The Sunday Story Series
• Riding the Dog  – 1/24/21
• Hiking with Jack – 1/31/21
• A Track Story – 2/7/21
• Ritual – 2/14/21
• Voyageur – 2/19/21
• A Dog Story – 2/25/21
• A Watkins Legend – 3/7/21
• Ghosts at Gettysburg – 3/14/21
• Lessons from the State Meet – 3/28/21
• More Lessons from the State – 4/4/21
• Stories from the Road – 4/11/21
• A Bear Wants You – 5/1/21
• My Teachers – 5/9/21
• Old Friends  – 5/23/21
• The Gift – 6/6/21
• Echoes of Mom – 6/20/21
• Stories of the Fourth – 7/3/21
• Running Memories – 7/25/21
• Lost Dog of Eldora – 8/1/21
• Dogs and Medals – 8/8/21
• The New Guy – 9/5/21
• Stories of 9-11 – 9/12/21
• The Interview – 9/26/21
• Night Moves – 10/3/21
• Funeral for a Friend – 10/11/21