Today marks one month since my father passed away at the age of eighty-five. He had been in failing health for some time so I thought I was prepared for the inevitable. Unfortunately, and naturally, there is no way to fully accept that one half of the people responsible for my life is gone. I loved my dad.
My father wouldn't want us to mourn his death. Instead, I'm sure he much prefer laughter and happiness for the remainder of our lives. Thankfully for him and the family, laughter came the day after his death.
"We are meeting at the funeral home at ten o'clock in the morning," my mother said. The men from the funeral home had arrived to arrange a few early details on the evening dad passed. They had briefly gathered in the living room while most of the extended family waited in the kitchen. My head throbbed and I longed for the comfort of my bed. Emotions washed over me in waves.
I sat silently as the men embraced my mother and bid her goodnight. She turned and found the one empty chair in the room and sat down. "So, we will meet at ten in the morning to make arrangements. Does that work for everyone?" Everyone included my older brother and younger sister and myself of course.
"Yeah, ten is good," we answered in unison.
By that point in the evening, I was ready to decompress a bit. I think everyone was. "I'm heading home to try to get some rest. I'll see you in the morning." I embraced my mom and walked slowly to the car, my head in a fog. Thankfully, my wife was by my side.
After a night of restless dozing and wondering if I was dreaming or if my dad was really gone, I finally and slowly eased from my bed and made the trek to the downstairs family room of our home. Soon, Kristi arrived and sat next to me offering comfort. "I'm here for you." She is a good wife and I was thankful to have her by my side.
"I'm O.K.," I said, staring at nothing in particular. Soon after, she and our two children left for school.
Driving slowly and deliberately, I steered my car toward the funeral home, unsure of what to think, or how to act. I'd never had to make funeral arrangements.
The parking lot was mostly empty, with the exception of a few vehicles parked at the far corner of the lot. I assumed they belonged to employees. I was the first of my family to arrive.
Very little time elapsed before my mom, brother and sister arrived. Everyone had an emotionless gaze on their face. They looked tired, and I assumed that they too hadn't slept much.
"How are you doing mom?" I asked as we walked toward the entrance.
I put my arm around her to express support as we walked. "Oh, I'm fine. Tired, but fine." My mother is a shining example of strength and resilience. She had vowed to take care of dad until the end and she did. I aspire to have her strength. Her life was difficult in the last months of my dad's life. Somehow, she soldiered on, committed to her husband of nearly fifty-four years. I am thankful for her.
The four of us were greeted by the funeral director and owner of the business. He had grown up in our small town, so we knew him well. "Good morning. If you will just follow me, we can begin making arrangement for Mr. Fix."
We discussed dad's military service, employment, obituary, and all other necessary information. Occasionally, small talk broke the sullen mood in the room. For that, I was thankful. "I think we've covered everything, so if you'll follow me once more, I'll show you to the display room and you can make your selections concerning the casket and vault," the director said, rising from his chair. We followed, unsure if our emotions would stay in check long enough to finish the arrangements.
Funerals come at a cost. Yes, a life is lost, but funerals come at a financial cost. The director dutifully explained the difference in the various metal and wood caskets as well as the construction of the vaults and quality of each piece. The prices were displayed before each item. There were also a large selection of cards, guest books, and other merchandise available. The director explained that some caskets have a variety of hardware included while others don't. Vaults are the same way. Some are very ornate, while others are plain and simple. In a nutshell, a person can spend as much or as little as they desire.
The presentation seemed to continue for what seemed like an eternity. In reality, only minutes had elapsed, but with swirling emotions and fatigue from a sleepless night, time seemed to stand still. Evidently my older brother felt the same way. He ambled toward me and leaned close, "I've already told my girls to forget all of this stuff. I want to go out as simple and cheaply as possible," he said, leaning even closer to my sister and I. "Good grief, I know we should honor dad, but he was a simple man! He wouldn't want us spending a pile of money of his funeral. He told me so!" he continued. My dad was a simple man indeed, but not a simpleton in any way. Money and material items meant nothing to him. He told me often that a person really only needs enough food, shelter, clothing and family. Everything else is unimportant. His words are profound and true.
I thought about my brother's words and was sure that his idea of what his funeral would entail was coming right up. I hoped it would anyway due to the fact that surely he'd want to go out in grand fashion. Grand and inexpensive. Jarrett was never one to mince words, and despite his best efforts at being serious, he has a unique way of making people laugh whether intended or not. I admire that quality in him. "You want to know how I'm going out?! I'm getting cremated and then blasted out of a muzzle loader!" A brief silence enveloped the room. I turned and stared at him. Carla, turned and stared at him. My mom stopped leafing through a variety of thank you cards and stared at him. The lady at the desk across the room stared at him. The funeral director was surely trying to process whether he could possibly carry out such an unusual request. He too, stared at him.
"Did you say you wanted to be blasted out of a muzzle loader?!" I asked, trying to control my facial muscles in a way that didn't produce a smile, after all this was a somber occasion and only dignity need apply. Despite my best efforts, laughter welled up inside me. The thought of my brothers ashes being blasted out of the barrel of a black powder rifle overpowered my attempt to stay stone faced.
"Yes, I did. Take me out on North Mountain and stuff me down the barrel of a muzzle loader and blast away. Poof, gone," he continued. Carla began her famous snicker, and I broke into an all out uncontrollable laugh. The funeral director stood staring off into space with his hand gently rubbing his chin, no doubt still trying to decide if he could honor such a request.
Mom looked quizzically at all of us, a smile creeping across her face.
In an instant, I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks. A welcome change from the tears of sadness I had endured for the last twenty-four hours. I attempted to speak, only to laugh more. Finally, the words found their way to my lips. "Well, it's whatever you want. But, you are a big man, I doubt a muzzle loader will hold all of your ashes. Unless of course you would be okay with a twenty-one muzzle loader salute! Or perhaps we could borrow a cannon. I think we could stuff you into a cannon!" By that time, I was doubled over laughing. Carla continued to snicker. My poor mother must have thought that despite our advancing age, we were still unruly children at heart. Finally, she added some commentary.
"Oh for heaven's sake, would you knock it off?! I'm trying to make funeral arrangements for your dad. I never thought we'd be discussing whether or not to shoot you from a muzzle loader or a cannon," she said, smiling.
The funeral director added his input as well. "Hey, I think we could pull it off. I really do. I guarantee you that I would be the first to do it in Virginia. Maybe in the whole country."
We finally finished the arrangements for my father amid more laughter. The mere sight of the family standing on top of a mountain loading my brother's ashes into a muzzle loader continued to make me laugh with no hope of letting up. Carla giggled continuously as did my mom. The funeral director continued to display a face that said he was already sorting out the details of the muzzle loader funeral.
I still think about that moment. I probably always will. The day we could thank our older brother for giving us a much needed dose of humor despite the fact that surely he was serious. We needed it.
Dad's memory will linger on. His legacy lives through his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and the impact he had on this world. Dad left the world a better place for simply having lived. I am thankful to God for his life, and I'm thankful for his oldest son desiring to be blasted from a muzzle loader.
