Funerals
Man, I hate funerals. It was so sad. The great Matriarch of the family was laid to rest. Couple of odd points, my aunt, being a great herbalist and all, instead of traditional flowers, the altar was adorned by a spray of herbs, cut from her own garden. The “high Episcopalian” service was punctuated, between Sister and myself, giggling about the pagan symbolism of the herbs themselves.
There was a discussion, albeit brief, between Sister and Ma Wetzel about the relative difference between the two styles of communion, “dip or sip.”
Huh?
“It’s whether you dip the host into the wine, or do like all these Episcopalians do, and take a slug out of the jug….”
Leave it to my family to have a high-level discussion about theology while we’re all in the front row for my aunt’s funeral. Hey, Sister wore a dress, Aunt better be impressed.
In part it was very tearful, and I’m not a crier, not usually. A rainy day in the valley, along the edge of the mighty river, the cool fall weather hinting that colors are around the corner, and then, after the service, watching as my cousins, one in particular, waited until the coffin was lowered into the ground.
“I have very specific instructions, I’m to make sure she gets planted properly.”
I’m still interested in the comment my aunt made, in El Paso, when she was talking about the “burn” files, “When I die, I left specific instructions, including some files that were to be burned.”
The secretary disavows any knowledge of such files. But there was a treasure trove of files, letters from pre-World War Two.
Tears? Sure. Treasures? Only for people who like herbs or words.
Then, late in the evening, Sister was bugging me to help her reformat her hard drive.
Sunday? I’m not lifting her suitcase. She carries rocks, every software CD she’s ever bought, books, clothes, candles, I mean, she has it all.
My family is pretty weird. After being around my cousins, though, I’m glad to see that it is a genetic thing.
