Author’s Note: I’ve kept this in my drafts drawer for some time. With my brother’s ashes interment scheduled for early next week, it’s time to share it.
-Marlow

Church of the Resurrection Ft Myers FL

It was an early spring 2014 day inside a southwest Florida church where we gathered for the last time to honor a couple who helped build the church almost forty years before. Their children, grandchildren and great grandchildren were all there — together for the first time as a family unit since the couple’s fiftieth wedding anniversary in 1998.

These mostly lapsed Catholics were there for their parents’ funeral mass and interment in the church’s circular garden just outside the sacristy.

In attendance were mostly very old folks, a few of their offspring and several bored teenagers.

I was standing up front near the right-side aisle as the crowd processed out to the garden for the burial, when an older gentleman in a fine Italian suit who was very fond of my parents approached me.

He whispered, “I’m real sorry about Mary and George. She was a real peach and he was as true a friend as there is, er, was.”

“Thanks for coming, Mort.” I said.

Mort had now become the oldest member of the ROMEO group. These retired old men eating out met every week at a local bagel shop to chew the current events fat and talk about old times. They were all there at church that day with their spouses. Mort was deeply sad to see his old bagel mate gone from his life.

It was an interesting group of men from all walks of life with many amazing accomplishments to their credit. Mort was a billionaire construction magnate from Chicago, George a multi-patent holder who had worked with the heads of IBM and XEROX and the father of the US nuclear Navy when he was called Captain Rickover, John was a stone cold killer from what became known as Special Forces during the early and middle Cold War era back before they were called Special, and several other self-made men who served during World War II. They all wore their grief on their sleeves as we consoled each other.

I felt like crap and looked older than I was, since I and two of my three sisters had been caring for the parental units for the past two plus years 24/7. I was out of shape, underweight, smoking and coughing too much, estranged from my child and grandchildren, divorced from a miserable person and still suffering from inhaling too much parental cremains dust the previous night.

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Yes, it had been a really long funeral eve, picking up more than a dozen family members, making a Mexican dinner and dessert, drawing up their sleeping arrangements in the house we three caregivers had renovated for the parents before settling down for cocktails and mixing the parental cremains in the garage.

That was what the folks, well actually our Mother, wanted; but, the more fastidious children weren’t sure if the idiots in the Roman Catholic Curia in the Vatican allowed such commingling, let alone what the new Monsignor at the church might say. These newer priests were mostly by-the-book conservative in approach.

When I heard these comments, I turned to the uncertain ones and said “Screw that. This is what Mom wanted, so that what’s she and Dad are gonna get. To hell with asking permission.” as I emptied the two boxes of cremains into a large 5-gallon, orange Home Depot bucket. The resulting ash slides caused a sizable dust fallout cloud to form in the garage that slowly drifted towards my brother in law’s sport car. (2022 note: I only found out recently that some of these officious ones had spirited Glad sandwich baggies of their ashes for personal remembrances – something the Church had officially forbidden years ago in writing.)

As luck and a devious God would have it, the car’s owner then came out to see his nice brown car with a new light bone grey patina. Before he said anything, I grabbed the leaf blower and blew his garage and prized go-fast machine free of the parents. He smirked since he knew the parental dust storm would irritate the tight asses in the crowded garage. I had always liked him.

When several of them made known more of their concerns, I said, “Earth to earth and all the rest of that rot. If you’re not helping mix and repackage this rare 1923 vintage parental blend back into the original boxes, please refill our wine glasses.”

I felt my parents’ presence in my nostrils for the next two days.

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On the plus side, I had remarried to a wonderful woman, and there was plenty of bourbon laid aside for after the wake.

Most of my family are perfectionists. My motto: If it’s good enough for government work, it’s good enough.

Nothing escaped the hawk-like eyes for details that some of my siblings had. Their eyes pierced and judged nonstop.

The next day, I caught the eyes of several of the persnickety ones eyeing my older but still nicely fitting business apparel that was perfect for funerals – charcoal grey power suit for important DC beltway meetings. Under the hot Florida sun, I felt I would soon follow my parents into the earth if I didn’t shuck these wool duds, starched long sleeve shirt and neck-strangling tie. I refused to wear the final piece of the beltway consultant’s uniform – expensive, black leather shoes. So, to my some of the more proper dressing guests’ disdain I sported some nicely broken-in dark brown, Keen sandals. No socks, of course.

With my untrimmed greying hair and goatee, I looked like a bargain basement, dissolute, Caribbean Jesus in a suit.

Given that my past profession taught me to be quietly observant, I was surprised to lip-read two people with narrowing eyes softly say “Jesus Christ” when they saw my shoe wear choice.

I theatrically blessed them and winked at them when I saw their glaring reaction as they exited their pews.

I sure wasn’t gonna tone down my act for them. They were still mentally living up north in the 1950s. At least they could have been thankful that I wasn’t wearing a Florida Panthers hockey jersey.

Their disappointment with my attire was inevitable. That’s why we stopped doing Thanksgivings; the deal with who would cook, where we would hold it, bla, bla, blabbity, bla, it was always something.

A minority were happy that I had remarried since they thought I would get into serious trouble by myself down in the hard-drinking, old town section of Key West. And none of them had wanted me to move in with or near them. It’s always nice to still be feared as you are skidding the downhill curves towards 70.

When the American Legion old dudes did their 21-gun salute, using fake guns, in honor of our father’s World War II service, the jumpy and whimpering reactions of the guests almost made me laugh out loud.

I was mostly successful stifling my laughter until the youngish, parish Monsignor stepped up to say a few unexpected and clearly impromptu graveside remarks.

I stiffened my ramrod straight posture, listened to the padre’s thin, weak unconvincing words of consolation.

“Death . . . a bittersweet occasion to us Catholics . . . Bitter in the pain for the families . . . . Sweet to those who know the salvation that awaits the dying . . . ” I audibly sighed at that transparent Hallmark card BS.

“Some ask what is death. Is it the end? Or is it the beginning? And what is life?” At this point I really wanted to rip a huge, noisy fart to stop this nauseous assault of funereal clichés. Instead I softly uttered “Jesus” to which the padre mistakenly surmised I was in the Redeemer’s good hands and he quickly concluded while softly coughing.

We children then dug holes wherever we wanted in the circular flower planter with tiny little hand trowels. We should have brought our Dad’s garden spade and mattock, since the dirt was rock hard. We then in turn each poured portions of the blended parents into Church mandated separate holes and covered them up.

The club house inside the gated walls of my parent’s residential community was crammed with people following the service. I let the others deal with the crowd, while I tended to ordering me and W stiff Old Fashioneds and lighting up a small cigar out on the outdoor patio.

One of my younger siblings commented “A lot of people showed up after the service.”

My response was simple: “I figure they knew we were going to cater it and have an open bar. Their friends always liked a good feed and stiff drinks. I still miss Dad’s old friend, Harry, from the good old days of three martini business lunches.”

I went inside to see if we needed more tables and chairs for the late arrivals. It was then that I saw some siblings going over Mom’s stuff and divvying it up. I whispered to them, “Don’t do that. The executrix and oldest sister will kill you. Just ask for what you want and you’ll likely get it.”

It had already started, and I wanted no part of it. I stayed out of all of what followed unless it was to assist my sister, when or if requested.

Now five years later with all the pain, grief, suffering, and minimal bickering over the estate in the rear-view mirror, it’s remarkable that we all survived. What did I learn?

Life goes by very quickly. With all parents and grandparents now dead and gone, we geezer children are quickly moving towards our own final day. The scarcity of time and the brevity of life have hopefully increased our urgency for what really matters.

Death is strong. As one young co-worker said to me long ago “dead is dead.” The grave is fierce, so smoke ’em if you got ’em, have one more conversation, give hugs liberally, live at peace with everyone, and tell those you love that you love them.

Just about every possession is meaningless. It’s all about time, precious time. Cemetery visits graciously remind me of my Irish uncle’s advice “You aren’t gonna outlive the stars, so deeds not words, dumbass.”

Miss the departed but let them go.

Amen.

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