Part 173 Taps and tolling bells


The first of December (unlike the James Taylor song) isn’t covered with snow. But it is seasonably brisk. At work, the developmentally handicapped class has their annual sale of hand made Christmas ornaments/crafts, and I walk away with a birdhouse, some ornaments,a couple of outside decorations - a taste of the season to come.

At night our family drives to mom’s house for what I guess is a wake for my dad. Lots of relatives that I rarely see were there (including one from Colorado and another from California). Although there is sadness, we enjoy many light hearted memories.

I go to work the next morning for a half day. I am busy, as I have been in recent days. I leave for home, and there our family gets dressed to drive across town to Memorial Drive Presbyterian Church, the site of the funeral and the church my parents have attended for many years. Many people file in the waiting room. Becah is bothered that I am the only one not wearing a tie (even my Austin ex-hippie brother David has one on). My reason is legitimate – tying a tie is another one of those lost skills I have to deal with since my TIA last year. I really wouldn’t pick this moment – in respect for my dad – to be rebellious. Never fear, my cousin Billy from Denver pulls off his clip-on tie and hands it to me, withdrawing another from his pocket for himself. My brother Craig would have none of this, though, so he ties a tie for me that I had brought along just in case.

At exactly twelve, the bells outside the church began tolling. The minister Dave walks in first, followed by my family, then Craig’s, then David’s, in the birth order sequence of the brothers. After some music, my mom delivers the eulogy. She tells how she and dad met in college (my dad bumming notes from her in a history class) and how they were engaged the next month. She discusses his great loves: flying, golf, his sons, his twin brother. I do okay through the excellent soloist’s rendition of “Ave Maria”, but I cannot stop the tears when the pianist plays “Fascination”, my dad’s favorite song. The minister follows with a powerful message about the kingdom of heaven. He speaks with drama, towering from the pulpit with his well over six feet height and holding a bible in his right hand as sunlight streams behind him through the stained glass windows. The soloist follows with a strong version of “How Great Thou Art”.

The highlight comes as two uniformed men march down the center isle unveiling the American flag, then slowly and silently and meticulously folding it right before us on the front row, presenting it to my mother. The room is breathlessly silent. Suddenly “Taps” sounds from a trumpet in the back of the sanctuary. It is a stirring ceremony that words cannot adequately covey.

As we walk out, another song, “Alley Cat”, one that my parents danced to many times, plays overhead. The reception is filled with relatives, friends, former business associates, and former neighbors (Kelly, now a grown lady with deep blue eyes just like her long deceased father, I haven’t seen she was a little girl). I recognize friends of Craig’s from way back in Shreveport. Craig’s ex-wife and mother of two of his children is there as well, looking young as she always does. My dad was always very fond of her, even after they broke up. I am amazed at the number of people who have come to honor my father. He is well remembered.

The relatives and a few close friends drive to mom’s house for snacks after. Back at home later, I try a patch in my mouth that is supposed to aid in moisturizing. I drink two Guiness beers, eat three slices of pizza, and finish it off with pound cake topped with whipped cream. It seems to be working pretty well.