An he not walk then shall we carry him

In which our Hero says goodbye to his late uncle

Mortality has been on my mind for a while, but the passing of my uncle has certainly brought the consideration to the forefront of my day this past week. On the other hand, death happens in the middle of life and so it’s more like a stone plopping through the surface of a lake than the tearing of a fabric or the opening of a crater. Have visit the family, but also have to go to bank. Have to go to a viewing but need to get some milk.

It’s been an important experience, but I kind of procrastinated on writing an entry about some of the stuff along the way because I really just want to kind of be done. But now the funeral is past and most of us can cheerfully forget or ignore the long, sustained grief as the family now actually copes with the loss of their loved one.

(You asked, Gentle Reader, if it was the Mouse or Willow affected, and no, it is not. This man was the father of Coal who received her iron ring from me in March, and of one of the Bobs, with another brother between them. And as I said, they’ve mostly been showing strong, collected face, because this was cancer and nobody was surprised.)

There were two viewings, Thursday and Friday night, and the funeral was Saturday. I went on the Thursday night, collected my dad’s brother and was one of the first to arrive at the scene. And there came the second sort of shock when we came through the door and the host asked if we were here for the “Lastname” family. Which is my uncles last name. Which is also mine. I forget that, because he’s family, we don’t really say last names. I didn’t even know of the coincidence till I was over.

I’m not an expert in funereal protocol (I’ve only felt compelled to go to a few viewings) but I was just staggered by the seeming lack of clue by the other visitors. First, people just kind of stood in an ring of seemingly confused people, just looking at the casket. Then a few people went up and paid their respects, but then they’d go back to standing in the herd. So I went, paid my respects to my uncle, and then paid my respects to his family. Seems inherently obvious, but I guess uncertainty makes children of us all. I was amused to see the flow form in my wake as I collected my passengers and led them to the other side of the reception area to watch a slide show that was running.

My uncle had lost his hair and mustache from the chemotherapy, and weight from the sickness and the treatments. He was smaller, and frailer, and… old. At first, the only thing that really told me that I was in the right room was that his family were gathered around the casket, otherwise I wouldn’t have been sure.

I was there by myself, which makes me effectively my family in proxy, and suddenly I have an ambassadorial responsibility. Which is why I told my aunt that my parents were sorry they couldn’t be there today (my mother had an appointment), and she smiled and said “Tell them not to worry. [Uncle] isn’t here, they don’t have to worry.” I moved down the line, and got to the kids who asked me to be pall bearer.

That shocked me a little. OCD contingency planner me had counted off the likely candidates and I got to six with a few maybes so I knew I was on the list, but I didn’t expect the question would come up. But even without the circumstances, if they’d asked me to help give their father a ride, I would have felt a need to say yes. For the last journey of his life, no is not an option. Hell, I don’t think I’d be able to say no to a complete stranger if they asked that of me, not without a really good reason.

And after sticking around for an hour or so, we headed back to my uncle’s place, where I paid a much overdue visit, before heading home.

Friday, my parents went up to the viewing. Before they left, my father played a voicemail. “Meow! Meow!” a small child was saying. “Meow!” My mother who will cheerfully, loudly and unabashedly meow at children, at family parties or at the grocery store. She’s not *good* at animal impressions, but it makes kids smile, and though I’ve never actually seen Oven respond to her because he’s absurdly shy, apparently she made an impression. His mother, Ice, was calling mine, and he remembered that.

My dad and I just laughed and played the message again, Ice’s voice in the background trying to get him to say the rest of the *actual* message. “Tell them to call me!”

But when they got home, there was a message on their machine, ostensibly for me, but with one of my cousin’s laconic “Hey guys!” salutations. “Hey guys! We need you to be at the funeral home an hour before the service, tomorrow.” Simple guidance. Except… guys? Does that mean my dad was needed as a pallbearer too?

My parents wanted to call, but I said I’d text. And then my father said the thing that made me smile at the difference generations make. “But what if she doesn’t get it right away?” She’s a college student with a cell phone. She uses text more than voice or email. And she proved me right, replying in moments.

Saturday was difficult. A snow storm had moved in during the early hours of the morning, and it wasn’t a lot of snow, but with the lower volume of traffic, it was enough to coat the highways, and this was a 90 minute drive on a good day. I got onto the highway and people were going 80 or even 60 miles per hour in parts, and I neither had the time nor the patience to accept that, but also I know how to drive in snow. You don’t have to drive slow, you just have to leave bigger margins for error.

And for the most part, there were paths. The main lanes had paired furrows exposing asphalt to rubber, and the main tricks were to not try to rapidly shift directions, and not to try to accelerate or decelerate where the service was less than consistent. So I was running at the speed limit, pressing through crowds of the less audacious. I wasn’t the only one pushing, there was a charger that jockeyed for the lead with me over most of the trip.

But that doesn’t change the fact that this is one of the worst drives I’ve ever done. Weather like this, I would normally have delayed the event or cancelled outright. And because I was a pall bearer, I’d taken the family van by myself which meant that my father, admittedly a better driver than me, was having to suffer with this weather too. He was coming with another family less sure of their directions. Our thought was that we could converge after the burial.

Anyway, the weather was awful, and I was as cautious as it was in me to be. As embarrassing as it is to admit, I kept hearing Nocturne telling me not to rush it when I wanted to push the pedal further down. Notwithstanding that, there was a crowded patch of highway where people weren’t moving, and I pushed out into the third lane, unbroken by tires.

Here’s the thing about snow, a little bit behaves much like water. A little more behaves like ice. A lot of it can behave somewhat like glue. In the middle of the night, a long time ago, I was coming home from work, and when I tried to get onto my unplowed ramp from the plowed highway, the snow grabbed the tire and my car did a 180. And in that third lane, I will admit here, there was about 10 seconds where I did not have real control of the vehicle. I mean, I did, becauseI was steering and throttling, but I didn’t have choices. Turning would spin me. Accelerating would spin me. Braking would spin me. It wasn’t exactly a mistake, it was just the nature of the drift and the lack of visible lanes on this part of the road. I let the van roll till I got clear of the deeper part and gave up on the third lane for the rest of the trip. But that was a little scary. Emphasized by the spun out SUV I passed a little later.

At the funeral home our contact was an insanely sunny woman who smiled eye-crinkling smiles at us as she explained our roles. I discovered there were 8 pall bearers, not 6. And I approved immensely because it meant that 12-year-old Bob would get a chance to help put his father to rest. But with the weather, we had 3, and then 5, with a 6th showing up only as we were already guiding the casket to the hearse.

The service was simple and suited to personality and circumstance. The presiding priest was my uncle’s twin brother, which was a little strange to see. Despite understanding the need, I found it distasteful that our homeland’s tradition of filming funerals had come here. In front of me, an iPad was uStreaming to at least 16 people.

One reflection as we were listening to the eulogy, is that while this is my first time as an adult in a funeral mass, I don’t like being in the honour party any more than at a wedding. It’s a heavy weight to carry, and I don’t mean the casket.

A tradition of that homeland that was applied here was that the family kissed my uncle goodbye, ending with his oldest son who would cover his father’s face before they closed the casket. His mother bent to kiss him, and kissed him again and again, till her priest-son collected her and guided her away.

And then it was us again, taking him to the hearse. We were supposed to get the pallbearers lined up behind the hearse for the procession, but, with love, my people are some of the most fucking annoying people on the planet. Well-intentioned, and thoughtless. They jammed the parking lot of the church, keeping me from getting close. I pushed through a few spots just by refusing to conceded right of way, and in one place, to the laughter of my fellows, I pulled out the white gloves and shook them at the other guy to get him to back off.

A long drive into the wilds of this already edge-of-civilization place and we pulled into the cemetery. And waited as the winter wind kept blowing and the snow floated down. We had 5 bearers again. And then 6. And then 7. And then… 7. And… 7. And… where’s our eighth? Finally, we drafted another family friend, and carried my uncle to his grave.

A 6-foot grave is a lot deeper when you see it in person, on a springy wooden platform covered in slippery snow, holding an extremely heavy casket. It’s an unsettling view till the casket takes its place. And then my duty done, I joined my family (pulled into place as a windbreak for my mother), and we buried him.

After the burial was a very dull reception, and after the reception, close family went back to the house where we just… hung out. Oven’s littlest brother, Stereo, was freshly awake from napping in the peaceful car ride, and his mother needed to attend to her older kids so she smiled at me and asked if I wanted to hold him.

So I held a four-week-old baby for a time, and he was expressive and engaged, making big faces and intently studying my lapel. I forget how utterly tiny babies start, no matter how many times I experience it, but he apparently didn’t know he wasn’t strong enough to support his head, because when he fussed, I put him on my shoulder, and then he was looking around at anything he could. Till he swung over one way to look at the sofa, and then back the other way to headbutt me in the jaw hard enough that I felt it.

But he didn’t cry, and he stayed with me, and we stayed together like that. Him thinking, and me suggesting hobbies because I think he’ll like cooking once he’s figured out how to use teeth. His first name is the same name that coincided at the funeral home. His first name is my uncle’s last name, and they both share it with me.

And that was how I ended that day. Cradling a life beginning as we mourned another life ended.

It was a good day.