As the poet, Emily Dickinson, once wrote, "I felt a funeral in my brain".
I've said it before: this is a year of funerals.
Perhaps because I am "mid generations"--losing not only friends at mid-life, but the friends of my parents, my aunts and uncles, the friends of colleagues, the friends of our public lives.
In L.A., in the 1980's, between AIDS and cancer, I saw an entire generation of artists, wiped away. For those of us still standing, going to another funeral was like being in remission: any day another bit of bad news might appear. It always did.
For a while, funeral services became like weddings: who could be the most creative; who could blow off the biggest 'party'/reception; who could draw the most surreal tears? Not so much bad taste, as much as having to get out from under the terrible oppression. People of every background and ethnicity went over the top for their families--whether blood or chosen--because there was just so much loss. But, even then, our numbness crept in, like a guest at the services.
When I came back to New England, the first thing I did was begin attending funerals.
It began with family then immediately extended outward. I didn't have much in the way of autumn teaching outfits (mine being from warmer climes), I did,indeed, have a plain black suit, purchased the first week I landed. It has come to be my "funeral suit". Like something out of Ibsen or Tennessee Williams, there was no question of wardrobe on these somber days.
Monday, Mrs. Nancy Anderson, mother to two of my high school friends, will have her funeral services and burial. She was a Lutheran. I haven't seen her family in decades. However, I have been kept informed of their lives, over the years, by my own family.
Though we are far, far removed, my re-awakened New England roots have been itching for new life in their direction. So, after sending condolensces, I will reconnect at the funeral. (No one ever prepared me for any of this stuff...Is there a text I might study, somewhere?) I feel awkward; unsure of what to say; shy; and painfully aware this is not "about me"--it is a funeral, for their mother. Still, how does one begin...or end...with grace?
My friends are very,very upstanding, kind people. No one is going to ask me to leave or begin screaming grudge matches--I have witnessed such outbursts in other locales--though not personally involved. There will be no dramatics; no high-fiving in the sacristy; no "long lost harrangues" in the pews. I know none of their extended family; none of the grand-children or spouses, even. Our ties were decades ago. Though once strong, our paths have shot out in multiple directions. They know I will be there, among hundreds of others, to send their Mom off to her Heaven. (I will also be there to say "gracias".) For now, this is enough.
Mrs. Anderson was the first person to introduce me to avocados--a bit ironic as I spent thirty-five years after that eating them almost daily, in the West. She also took me, along with her family, to Nantucket Island, inviting me to stay with them for a week at a time. Her daughter, youngest son, and I became close on those journeys--exploring the island off-season--seeing it for the first time with my inland eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson got a kick out of that uncovering. (Their kids were past the point of absolute awe, though they loved the history and beauty of the rugged place). Not so this teen.
When we got back to town, she asked for some of the pencil sketches I'd done, on the trip. (I was shocked that anyone would be interested.) Later, those sketches went up in her kitchen. Framed. (I was too self-conscious to comment, but utterly pleased.)
Some time later, (though it became a turning point in my life--one from which I have yet to fully recover)Wells College was singled out to me by Mrs. Anderson. None of us, not her daughter who went there a year ahead of me, nor my family, nor myself, could foresee the strange destiny waiting for us there...things rarely turn out as we hope, or plan. It was Mrs. Anderson who embodied the finger of Fate, signaling the trailhead, the back-country path, I would follow for decades. In many ways, my deepest adventures were initiated by her suggestions. (Not that she knew.)
Simply for this fact, she remains seminal in my personal history.
I bow my head and send prayers up in the dark for her. Her own life accomplishments were many. Her family is wide and wonderful. She is what Gardner would dub "a successful citizen" and a law abiding, intelligent, faithful neighbor. A good wife; a loving mother; a woman who gave back to her community to the end of her days. A fateful figure in this writer's life...
So, another chapter closes. This is a post in honor of a passing friend.
Time to iron my black suit.
(Like Emily D., I feel the funeral beginning in my brain...)
I've said it before: this is a year of funerals.
Perhaps because I am "mid generations"--losing not only friends at mid-life, but the friends of my parents, my aunts and uncles, the friends of colleagues, the friends of our public lives.
In L.A., in the 1980's, between AIDS and cancer, I saw an entire generation of artists, wiped away. For those of us still standing, going to another funeral was like being in remission: any day another bit of bad news might appear. It always did.
For a while, funeral services became like weddings: who could be the most creative; who could blow off the biggest 'party'/reception; who could draw the most surreal tears? Not so much bad taste, as much as having to get out from under the terrible oppression. People of every background and ethnicity went over the top for their families--whether blood or chosen--because there was just so much loss. But, even then, our numbness crept in, like a guest at the services.
When I came back to New England, the first thing I did was begin attending funerals.
It began with family then immediately extended outward. I didn't have much in the way of autumn teaching outfits (mine being from warmer climes), I did,indeed, have a plain black suit, purchased the first week I landed. It has come to be my "funeral suit". Like something out of Ibsen or Tennessee Williams, there was no question of wardrobe on these somber days.
Monday, Mrs. Nancy Anderson, mother to two of my high school friends, will have her funeral services and burial. She was a Lutheran. I haven't seen her family in decades. However, I have been kept informed of their lives, over the years, by my own family.
Though we are far, far removed, my re-awakened New England roots have been itching for new life in their direction. So, after sending condolensces, I will reconnect at the funeral. (No one ever prepared me for any of this stuff...Is there a text I might study, somewhere?) I feel awkward; unsure of what to say; shy; and painfully aware this is not "about me"--it is a funeral, for their mother. Still, how does one begin...or end...with grace?
My friends are very,very upstanding, kind people. No one is going to ask me to leave or begin screaming grudge matches--I have witnessed such outbursts in other locales--though not personally involved. There will be no dramatics; no high-fiving in the sacristy; no "long lost harrangues" in the pews. I know none of their extended family; none of the grand-children or spouses, even. Our ties were decades ago. Though once strong, our paths have shot out in multiple directions. They know I will be there, among hundreds of others, to send their Mom off to her Heaven. (I will also be there to say "gracias".) For now, this is enough.
Mrs. Anderson was the first person to introduce me to avocados--a bit ironic as I spent thirty-five years after that eating them almost daily, in the West. She also took me, along with her family, to Nantucket Island, inviting me to stay with them for a week at a time. Her daughter, youngest son, and I became close on those journeys--exploring the island off-season--seeing it for the first time with my inland eyes. Mr. and Mrs. Anderson got a kick out of that uncovering. (Their kids were past the point of absolute awe, though they loved the history and beauty of the rugged place). Not so this teen.
When we got back to town, she asked for some of the pencil sketches I'd done, on the trip. (I was shocked that anyone would be interested.) Later, those sketches went up in her kitchen. Framed. (I was too self-conscious to comment, but utterly pleased.)
Some time later, (though it became a turning point in my life--one from which I have yet to fully recover)Wells College was singled out to me by Mrs. Anderson. None of us, not her daughter who went there a year ahead of me, nor my family, nor myself, could foresee the strange destiny waiting for us there...things rarely turn out as we hope, or plan. It was Mrs. Anderson who embodied the finger of Fate, signaling the trailhead, the back-country path, I would follow for decades. In many ways, my deepest adventures were initiated by her suggestions. (Not that she knew.)
Simply for this fact, she remains seminal in my personal history.
I bow my head and send prayers up in the dark for her. Her own life accomplishments were many. Her family is wide and wonderful. She is what Gardner would dub "a successful citizen" and a law abiding, intelligent, faithful neighbor. A good wife; a loving mother; a woman who gave back to her community to the end of her days. A fateful figure in this writer's life...
So, another chapter closes. This is a post in honor of a passing friend.
Time to iron my black suit.
(Like Emily D., I feel the funeral beginning in my brain...)
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