It was a long illness, so his passing was not unexpected, but knowing that someone is going to die “any day,” is not remotely the same thing as knowing today is that day, and so it’s never a thing you can fully prepare for. It’s the difference between the theoretical and practical. It’s the difference between knowing you need to get a colonoscopy, and ACTUALLY GETTING A COLONOSCOPY.
Which reminds me, I need to get a colonoscopy.
Just not today.
Death also sets in motion the funeral industrial complex and along with it a series of traditions and customs.
But first, we had to get there.
Planet Moron headquarters is located in the Washington DC area, because of course it is. The funeral was being held in rural Pennsylvania, a drive we know well as my wife and I have family scattered across the commonwealth, and we both have had increasing eldercare responsibilities to perform as the years have passed.
So, not a big deal for us.
And then a snowstorm struck DC the day before we were to leave, paralyzing the region.
Look at that accumulation! Why, it’s enough to completely bury a pair of Bruno Maglis not to mention what the salt will do to your Maserati’s finish!
It came on so quickly many people didn’t even have time to properly horde toilet paper, and instead were left trembling in their houses, their only lifeline to the civilized world being the 144 rolls they had earlier horded for the pandemic.
Frightening times indeed.
None of this was an issue for normal people, of course. I drove back and forth to work not once, but twice that day, relying on my all-wheel drive and not being a complete idiot (the latter not always being a sure bet, I’ll concede).
And then a tree fell on the power line leading to our house.
I mean, why not?
When my wife texted me at work I was confused. I trim our trees specifically to avoid this kind of thing. Which tree could it possibly be?
It was the tree I never bothered to trim because it never occurred to me that it could be a problem. It was a light spindly thing of multiple trunks and very little heft, that somehow collected hundreds of pounds of wet snow, break in half, and collapse on the power line running to my house.
It did not, however, take the line down, it just stretched it, pulling it down about three feet and resting there. Most importantly, we still had power.
My wife and son abandoned shoveling the snow when they noticed this, understandably concerned for their safety. I came home, eyed it up, and judged it to be not unlike two-week old Christmas dinner leftovers in that it “probably” wouldn’t kill me. (You just have to heat it really, really well. The leftover Christmas dinner, not the power line.)
So, I shoveled the walks and cleared the snow off the cars.
That was it for that bit of drama, at least for the moment.
Late the next morning, the power line was still clinging to the side of our house like Keith Olbermann clinging to relevancy, and we still had a funeral to go to, which meant a four-hour drive. It had been a pretty rough two weeks, what with my father-in-law’s impending demise, his need for constant care, and the all the normal holiday stresses and travel, so this meant coffee.
Serious coffee.
I had come across such serious coffee several trips earlier at a Rutter’s (one of those gas/convenience store chains like Sheetz) that was about at the midway point of our trip.
“Highly Caffeinated” coffee was what I needed.
This has become something of a running joke on my social feed at Not The Bee where I am employed part time writing about politics, race, economics, and cicadas, and serve as their Washington Correspondent, a title I made up but everyone is too busy to call me on it.
You have to appreciate the simplicity and honesty in the name, “Highly Caffeinated.”
Nothing cute or clever here. This is not “Death Wish,” or “Turbocharger,” or “Wake The Hell Up!” (Language!).
Think of the people who stop at these kinds of places, weary commuters and frazzled travelers. They don’t have time for marketing fluff. Highly caffeinated coffee is exactly what they are looking for. There is a refreshingly brutal honesty to it. I’m surprised Rutter’s doesn’t offer “Sugary Pastries You Don’t Really Need,” and “Off-Brand Chips You Never Heard Of But ‘Honey Chipotle Thai Taco’ Flavor Does Sound Intriguing” along with it.
This stuff will light you up nicely. I usually don’t finish the large, I leave it in the car overnight which at this time of year creates a refreshing iced coffee for the morning drive.
In any case, we got there, and I was alert if nothing else.
I’m sure this is pretty common across the country, but unless you’ve lived through it, you can’t quite appreciate the avalanche of food that descends upon a house when someone passes away.
It started before we left home, with one of my wife’s friends from PA, who also happens to live in the area, sent us an entire roasted chicken along with potatoes and a salad.
When I got to my in-laws’ house it was more of the same. This sandwich platter was just one of the items that showed up at the house.
This “blueberry loaf” was another.
I did not know such a thing existed. It’s basically a loaf version of a blueberry muffin and was so dense it nearly slipped out of my hand when I went to pick it up, surprised as I was by the heft of the thing.
The refrigerator was also well-stocked with all manner of home-made foods.
After eating too much, it was off for the evening’s memorial service.
The rituals surrounding a death reminds me of a wedding more than anything else, the only difference is that at a wedding the only thing that dies is your freedom.
Ha! I’m kidding, of course, particularly if my wife reads this.
Otherwise, it has all the trappings. There’s the church ceremony, the readings, the reception, the food that must be arranged for, all matter of legal matters that have to be addressed and so on and my wife and her family managed to pull the whole thing together in days instead of months.
Most of all, it’s a reunion of sorts, with people reconnecting and no small amount of smiles and laughter and joy.
That is as it should be. I assume people will be sad when I go, particularly my bartender and the Amazon Prime regional manager, and I imagine they will grieve but I want them to celebrate as well. I recall a funeral I attended some years back for a work colleague of mine who had requested ahead of time (he had a serious heart problem and so was prepared) that “Cheeseburger in Paradise” be played as people filed out of the church.
Every time I think about it, I get goosebumps.
And a craving for a margarita.
The evening’s memorial service was very nice, with a heart-warming turnout. Masks had been requested by the family. Nearly everyone wore one out of respect, although one like-minded visitor couldn’t help himself, and as I made small talk with him said, “I hate this stupid mask.” I told him, “Don’t get me started,” motioning to my son to add, “He doesn’t want you to get me started either.”
My son rolled his eyes, as he has tired of my frequent tirades about masks.
I kept quiet, mostly, and the evening remained mercifully devoid of my political rantings.
But really, unless you’re wearing an N95, properly fitted and…
Okay, I’ll stop.
The church service followed the next day.
I have been fortunate that it has been some time since a close family member has died on me, so I forget how exhausting it is for the family. You are “on” the whole time, being simultaneously consoled by family and friends but also consoling them, helping them process their own grief. It is all wonderful, and necessary, and heartening, and people’s kindness and thoughtfulness and willingness to go out of their way to help and be with you restores my faith in humanity, but well wishes only take you so far.
I was going to need coffee to get through the next day as well.
One of my relatives pointed out earlier that “the Lord provides,” and sure enough, shortly after getting the casket into the church, I stumbled upon a well-stocked Keurig machine already on and primed, sitting just inside the entrance to the church.
Oh, did I say well-stocked?
“What kind of K-abomination is this?!?!” I said in a voice loud enough to make my son take a step or two away from me lest anyone think we were together.
Blueberry flavored? Caramel vanilla cream?
Okay, I was being harsh, and there was some unflavored coffee in there as well despite my initial panic.
Thank you, Lord.
And church ladies.
That morning also brought with it another surprise. When I pulled up one of my security cameras. (Did I mention I live just across the Potomac from DC? Yeah, I have security cameras.)
And what do you know? The snow-laden tree managed to pull the power line right off the side of our house!
We still had power, so good news there. (Yay power!) The bad news was we now had a live power line sitting in our wet snowy yard. (Not-so-yay, potential electrocution!)
My wife called the power company and we both learned something new. The place where the line attaches to your house is called a “weatherhead,” and it’s our problem.
Oh!
After some back-and-forth with the power company and my wife trying to patiently explain that we were not home to warn people to stay at least 30 feet from the line as they were advising, she ended with this:
“I’m just informing you that you have a live power line sitting on the ground and that someone could get hurt.”
A few hours later, a bucket truck showed up to pin the power line back to the side of our house.
Funny how that worked.
It’s still a patch job, the weather head itself is gone, and the wire is just dangling to the meter so we’ll have to deal with it later, but the immediate danger was now addressed, and we could get on with our already difficult day.
The ceremony itself was beautiful, the family courageous and strong and my wife nothing short of amazing. Several songs were sung including what remains in my opinion, one of the most beautiful songs ever written, Amazing Grace.
After the ceremony, it was off to the cemetery.
My father-in-law was a Navy veteran and so a VFW contingent was there to provide a wonderful little ceremony including a rifle salute.
I’m not a veteran but should anyone feel compelled to discharge their firearms upon my passing I would not object.
And then, it was time to eat.
The church ladies (what would we do without church ladies?) did a wonderful job. The salad bar was, hands down, one of the best I’ve come across anywhere, with the lettuce extraordinarily fresh (take that, Whole Foods), and well-stocked with yellow, orange, and red bell peppers, broccoli, carrots, cauliflower, tomatoes, onions, cucumbers, and so on.
Of course, no Pennsylvania salad bar could ever be complete without rolled up cold cuts.
And, yes, you roll up cold cuts for me, those are going to go on my salad.
The meal was pure comfort food, both excellent and plentiful.
Meat loaf, potatoes, green beans and yet more potatoes, only shredded and drenched in cheese because cheese makes everything better.
Desserts were also plentiful, and I ate more than I should have but YOLO.
We even had fruit cups because health or something.
We headed back home that evening, exhausted in every sense of the word, but as these things go, it had been a good day and in a strange way it filled me with hope.
My father-in-law was a family man, active in his community and church. He will be missed, but his legacy on this earth will live on in each of us, and I look forward to seeing him again someday.