After my grandpa’s funeral, I got some hard numbers that I’ve been wondering about for some time. My grandparents have thirty three grand children and thirty eight great-grand children. My uncle has eleven children, meaning that his family accounts for actually a third all the grand children. Yes, yes it is a Catholic family. Understandably, I don’t know a whole lot of these cousins, though I recognized more than I thought I might.
We arrived at the church about fifteen minutes before the mass started. The boys ran around, only after I had persuaded them–myself acting childishly irritated–to change into their shirts, ties, and blazers. We posed for some pictures in our suits; Madee took pictures of a fat squirrel with my brother’s iphone; and we watched my grandpa’s casket unloaded from the hearse. My mom pointed out to the boys that Grandpa Tom was in there. They seemed mildly interested, but not all that concerned that a corpse was merely ten feet away, separated from our shared air only by a quarter inch of wood (plastic? fiberglass? I don’t know).
Once inside the church I navigated the boys through the entry way, happy to have the boys as a legitimate distraction so I didn’t have to make eye contact with people I may or may not know. Someone tapped my shoulder and I turned to see my other grandpa, my mom’s dad. “Bill!” I said, and gave him a big hug (for whatever reason, on my mom’s side, we often call our grandparents–or at least refer to them–by their first name). My grandma Janice–Bill’s wife–is in the hospital now. They are not entirely sure what’s wrong, but cancer is a possibility. This would be a concern under any circumstances, but she was just in the hospital in August after having a heart attack. For a time it looked pretty likely she’d die. She had been doing remarkable well since then, but with this most recent stay, it’s hard to say how’ll she be able to recover.
My parents married when my mom was eighteen, my dad twenty, and their families have lived in the Eugune-Springfield area this whole time, so their parents have know each other many, many years. My parents have been married nearly thirty seven years–and they are incredibly, admirably, touchingly still very much in love with and loving to each other– and each of them have very much become part of each others’ respective family. I imagine then, that it must have been strange and difficult for Bill to come to my Grandpa Tom’s funeral, especially with his own wife in the hospital, a funeral so easily identifiable with his own someday. But who knows. I am a very young man and I will make no claims to know anything about life, love, and mortality, nor how your views on them might change over time.
The Catholic funeral mass is a pretty dry affair. It is more or less like any other mass, though with a casket placed squarely before the alter. There was nothing really personal about the mass and even the homily–like they are meant to be, I suppose–was more about moral generalities than anything in particular about my grandpa. I was really longing for something personal about Tom and his life and was afraid it wasn’t going to come. But then the priest announced that my dad was going to speak. He had barely gotten to his feet and my eyes began to fill with tears. I was nervous that hearing my dad speak–and more importantly, hearing his voice break–or see him cry would send me into the kind of weeping I reserve only for the closest of friends.
He started by thanking everyone, especially the great-grand kids, who’d done very well. The boys were mostly quiet, though Eban kept moaning and clutching his stomach, complaining of an ache (when I told him he probably shouldn’t have cake then, he assured me he would be fine after having a little bit of water). My dad then spoke of the great faith that his dad had wanted to pass on to his children, the gift of the catechism. This was a slightly uncomfortable moment, since just before this I had quite noticeably sat down and not received communion (I’m not a Catholic, so it seemed weird to accept communion; I am not a monster!). I don’t think either of my brother took communion either, so it seems there was some stoppage in the passing of the catechism. My father is a very holy man though, so he’s probably got enough to get us all into heaven.
The speech was sweet and funny for the most part. Dad ended it by talking about my grandpa’s love of golf. My grandpa golfed quite a bit and not only that, was a great admirer of the game. He followed it closely and watched it on TV. My dad said then when he spoke with Tom they would often talk about golf. Tom liked to talk about the players he admired, the ones with great skill and technique. But, my dad said, there were certain players that my grandpa especially admired. It wasn’t just their technical skill, but there was something about these players. They were good family people or especially kind. Something about them was admirable and moral. My grandpa would talk about them especially and say, “They’re good for the game.” And, my dad said, by now nearly unable to speak because of the tears, “I think Dad was good for the game.” Not only did I start crying at the time, I can’t repeat it or write it without crying again. It was a beautiful speech.
There was a luncheon after the mass and following that we went to the cemetery. The boys and my niece and nephew ran through the grass, laughing and playing. They’d stop to look at the gravestones, sometimes laughing at the names (one was Butts; I told them it was disrespectful to laugh, though I did see the humor in it). There is a certain comfort to be had in the grace of children playing in a cemetery.
After the burial we went straight to the hospital to see my grandma. One of my uncles was there and taught the boys to make balloon animals, something that distracted them for a great deal of time. it was awesome. We stayed for a hour or so with my grandma. She was awake and in good spirits, but looked very sick and weak. They were to run some tests to try and figure out what’s going on. We kissed her goodbye and my brother and I drove home with the weiners fighting in the back seat. It was a very long day.
