Funerals, Part II

Part I

The next day I hopped into the car for the day and a half trip back to Missouri, only six weeks after I had been there for Mom’s non-funeral. Caretaker told me that Dad’s body already was on its way to Arkansas and a service would be either that weekend or the following Monday. I needed to hurry.

Only Son already had agreed to drive with me to Arkansas. I needed his support; besides, he had lived with my parents during his freshman year of college, and had fond memories. Two of my brothers, Caretaker and Youngest, would drive in another car. No one else could afford the short notice plane fare or get off work long enough to make the trip. We hated that so few of us would be there. Dad deserved more.

Immediately following Mom’s death, Dad discussed his own wishes for his "mortal remains". “I’ve got it all arranged,” he said. “Everything is paid for. Call John Doe Funeral Home, and they’ll take care of everything. I don’t want a full service, but I would like some prayers said before I’m buried. And I want some of your mother’s ashes in the coffin with me.”

As I drove, I thought, “A few prayers before I'm buried...” Yikes, who would do that? Apparently reading my mind, Caretaker’s wife called my cell phone (I had my headset on just in case).

“Youngest says you are far enough along in your religious studies to say the prayers Dad wanted. Are you?” she asked.

“Well, I could do it,” I said. “But I’d rather not.” My father had died as well as theirs, after all. But just in case, I had tossed my prayer book and Bible into my bag, and knew where I could borrow an alb. I did not tell her that.

Long silence. “How much would it cost to hire a preacher?” she asked. None of my brothers had any money; just to make the trip incurred financial hardship for both Caretaker and Youngest.

“I’ll take care of finding someone,” I said. In another post, I mentioned what I did to cover the graveside service.

On arrival to my Missouri hometown, Caretaker detailed what the plans were. Meet with the funeral director on Sunday afternoon, then graveside service on Monday morning. That way we could leave Sunday morning and return Monday night. I wanted to look around a day; the area held pleasant childhood memories. But Caretaker and Only Son had to get back to their jobs so that was impossible.

The six hour drive to central Arkansas was lovely. The trees in the Ozark Mountains were transforming from summer green to autumn scarlet, just gorgeous. While admiring the scenery, I reveled in the rare alone time with Only Son. Before my mother died, we had not had time for just the two of us in nine years. It took the death of my parents for us to have the space to reconnect.

The meeting with the funeral director did not take long. Just as Dad had said, everything was arranged and paid. We gasped when the funeral director pointed out how much all of the services would cost today had Dad not made the arrangements in 1991--triple what he had paid! (Now I’m convinced that pre-need is the way to go.) Fortunately I had a favorite photo of Dad with me; the funeral director scanned it for the service leaflet. Only Son brought a long sleeved white shirt to dress the body in; my brothers brought Dad’s favorite tie and slacks. There was nothing more for us to do.

Only Son and I decided to poke around a bit, while Caretaker and Youngest drove back to the motel. We drove through the then brand new subdivision where the pre-school me had lived. Amazing, I thought, how much a place can change in almost fifty years. Amazing how much a person can, too.

The big shock came when we drove past the house that my grandfather had had especially designed and built for him and his wife in the mid 1950s. They were proud of that house and its blue fescue lawn, and worked hard to keep it all a showcase. Many times they won the local garden club’s Yard of the Month. Even in 1989 at the time of my last visit, it remained pristine.

When we drove around the corner, past the well manicured lawns of the neighbors, I asked Only Son, “Where’s the house?” Then I realized that the dump with trash stuffed to the carport ceiling and the sagging, rotted fence was the place on which Grandad once had lavished such attention. The whitewash slapped onto the once lovely cedar siding was the final insult. No other house around was in such sad shape. Surely my grandfather was spinning in his grave.

Any appetite for further sight seeing suddenly left me. We returned to the motel in silence.

Trip to Bury My Father

Sixteen years have passed since the last time I was in Arkansas. I went to Searcy last to see my grandfather's sister, who then was the only survivor of her family of origin. During that trip, she gave me a tour of the old Searcy of importance to my family. The Eubanks went back in that town to the 1890s. My great-grandfather at one time was superintendent of schools, my grandfather developed into a successful businessman after some youthful flailing. My father fully intended to raise his family there, just as the two generations before him.

He did not count on the meddling influence of his step-mother, who treated my father's wife (my mother) like poor white trash. Dad stood silent. Eventually, when I was five, my mother told my father that either "we move, or I move." He got the message and moved us to Hot Springs AR in 1962, then in 1966, up to Missouri where we stayed.

Tomorrow my brothers, Only Son, and I will make the seven hour drive to Searcy AR to bury our father on Monday. Unlike Mom, he opted to have some prayers said at his graveside. In that area of the country, I didn't want to take a chance with a rent-a-preacher as my family doesn't need an ambush at the committal ceremony. Thankfully, the Rev Patrick Barker of Trinity Episcopal Church in Searcy agreed to perform the Committal from the Book of Common Prayer. We will meet with him probably just before.

Back to my grandfather. We visited a lot, and I continued to visit as a young married woman with my then husband and Only Son. My step grandmother died in 1988 after a long goodbye caused by Alzheimer's. She was one of the most hateful people I have met to this day, and although her funeral was well attended, she was not mourned. She had driven so much of our family away (shades of the Angry White Man) that I had not seen my grandfather in a few years before she went into the nursing home. Grandad seemed to be liberated by her death: "I can repair my family!" So we now adult grandchildren resumed the frequent (as our jobs would allow) treks to Arkansas with our children, and the old man loved it.

In 1989 I had some time between jobs, so I spent a week with Grandad in Searcy. He was in the hospital after prostate surgery. We had lovely, sage conversation and my idea of him as one of the best men I've ever known resumed. I had to leave after a week to complete my move and start my new job. He seemed to be doing well; my great-aunt had hired a new caretaker, who seemed very sweet, and of course the great-aunt was there, so I had no problems leaving.

Grandad came home from the hospital, sat down in his favorite chair, and died. I had just gotten to my parents' house from Searcy the day before. We all had commitments and could not attend his funeral. Dad went alone to bury his father.

So tomorrow we return to Searcy to bury our father. He had not been back since his father's funeral, and had not lived there for almost fifty, yet he felt called to seek his final rest there. Family was the pull back. Family will take him home.