Another Day in the Country
By PAT WICK
© Another Day in the Country
The wind prunes the trees and times the populace," an old friend, long gone, used to say to me.
I'm not sure if it is the spring winds that are to blame but it seems to me that we've been losing our populace in Ramona. And the funerals aren't getting any easier to attend. There's a sameness in the ritual — which perhaps comforts the bereaved — but I'm always one that wants to hear a little something different.
I hunger to hear stories of the life now ended. What did they do that was adventurous, wonderful, odd, funny, unusual? I want to know if they threw their books out the top floor of the high school window and declared a moratorium from education. I want to know that they got married at 16, lost two husbands, raised seven children, and survived. I want to know that they wanted to be a music teacher but got married and became a preacher's wife instead. I want to know that they took their little brothers and ran down through the field to see the California Zephyr go rolling by. I want to know that they got engaged after their second date and 60 years later didn't regret the decision. These are the things that I want to hear one more time as we mourn our loss. When life stories are told, it reminds us all to celebrate our own life and not just fritter it away in ho-hum living.
In a family of story-tellers, we heard, early on, about our great-grandmother taking a last long breath and our crying aunt wailed and Great-Grandma opened her eyes and said, "What's wrong? Did you think I died?" and then she did. I'm not sure what really happened at her funeral, but her passing was memorable. My dad told that story and he was just a tike when it all happened. But you know, whenever that story was told, something of my great-grandmother, whose first name I don't even remember, lives on — and it's a poignant, funny, pleasant memory of a lady who usually conjured up the opposite.
We tell those last stories to remind us of what it is to be human. We tell about the time we took an old friend of ours to a funeral and it was the wrong man. Being hard of hearing he doesn't whisper. "That's not Fred," he said.
We've had that sensation. When an aunt died, they gave her a new hair-do — this is not the time for a restyle — and we looked at her and said, "That's not her;" even though we knew in the literal sense that the case is not the violin. We did recognize her hands, though, and remembered them fondly for all the quilts they'd embroidered, the cherry pies they had made, and the way she waved when we headed back to California.
I was in Marion the other day, buying my cabbage plants, and overheard a conversation. "That was the most wonderful funeral," said the woman beside me. I looked up. I'm ready to attend some wonderful funerals.
"Pray tell, what makes a wonderful funeral?" I asked.
"Oh, it was so inspirational," she smiled and turned to a lady passing by, "It was Catholic," she chuckled, "they have so many rituals."
"So what did you think of the beer can in the casket?" another lady asked.
"And he was holding a royal flush." They were all smiles and laughter. "When I die, I'll be holding knitting needles," she called as she left the store.
"Were you at the funeral where everyone chewed?" asked the clerk as she took my money. I wasn't and obviously I was missing out not being a Marionite.
When I related my stories to my friends at art class, Frankie said, "Bury me with a fork because the Bible says, 'the best is yet to come'." Mary Alice told about scattering her aunt's ashes and having cake and bourbon and Betty said, "Just put my blue hat on the end of the coffin — that'll work."
It's another day in the country — a wonderful sunny spring day full of beginning and we're talking about ending. "Pray for good weather when I die," I said, "so we can have the service outdoors."
"Ah, we can just have it in the barn," said Tooltime Tim, "that way I can open both doors and the hearse can drive straight through." Great idea! I can think of no better surroundings than the sweet smell of hay, a cat with kittens in the corner, barn swallows in the rafters circling and meadowlarks singing
