Avoid the sake. Avoid the fences with sharp pointed tops. And above all else, never over estimate your skills or underestimate your opponents power. Learn from someone else's mistakes, young Insect-of-Your-Choosing. (The Fly, the Grasshopper, and the Ladybug are taken)
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The aftermath
Last Saturday I was wondering how to follow up my last post.
How does one segue from the most traumatic experience in the last eighteen years of their life?
How do you go from: "I helped carry my mentor, Granddad, and friend's body out" to "The weather is wonderful out here . . ."
I kept looking at this thing and wondering: "What is the point? Why bother? This cathartic therapy is so insignificant in light of recent events."
But then we had the local memorial service, and I was presented with the perfect close to the volume.
I didn't realise how much I had been affected by Granddad's passing until I noticed that every day after, I felt a little bit better than I did the day before. One week after the event I think that I must have been about ninety percent. Up from about sixty or seventy percent.
Then last Sunday we had the service.
Over the week there had been much debate about whether or not there would be an open casket. Some needless debate had prevented the mortician from performing his task promptly and nature had undauntedly continued on its coarse.
Having seen Granddad, a few short hours after he had passed, and having his image to this moment sealed into my mind, I personally had no desire to see him. Obviously I had no say, other than my opinion, which was never asked for, but freely given at the first opportunity.
I have never understood the need to see a corpse to find closure. I wonder if disbelief prevents people from finding peace and moving on, and so, like Philip, until they actually see the body, they refuse to believe, or accept the stated facts. After all, just because you disagree with a truth, doesn't make it untrue. And the longer that you disagree with truth, the more difficult, and dangerous, it becomes to align yourself with the truth. But I digress.
Please believe me that I have no problem with people who need to see the corpse to find closure. I don't think any less of those persons. I just don't understand. And lack of understanding is not a sin. With some things we have to grow up in order to understand.
So last Sunday they had an open casket. I still had no desire to see the body, but as I am the sound guy I new that there would be no way I could avoid it. So, fortune favors the bold, I went up front, and peered down upon the man that was laid at state in the simple brown casket. It was not Granddad. Sure, the man wore his glasses, but it wasn't him. It looked nothing like him. Nature had seen to that. I think that I breathed a sigh of relief. And now, looking back, I am glad that I looked.
I told some friends that if I was a conspiracist I would have started shouting "Where is he?! What have you done with him?! I know he's not dead! Take me to him now!" We joked that yeah, maybe he was on a secret South Pacific island with JFK, Hoffa, Elvis, and Apostle John.
But he is not. He is now more resplendent than imagination could possibly comprehend.
The service itself was far too long. It took four, wandering, meandering hours to get to the eulogy, which should have been gotten to in an hour.
But then it was too soon. My brothers spoke and I realised, not having spoken with them in depth about Granddad's passing, that they where just as devastated as I had been. And then the pallbearers were called, of which I was one.
I was disappointed that there was no actual carrying of the casket, we simply held the handles and rolled it along on its gurney until we got to the back of the hearse, and then we lifted; a little.
I understand why there was no manual portage, but man, that would have been the icing.
I didn't think I had any tears left. I hadn't cried since the day of his transition. But after they shut the back hatch of the hearse and pulled away, I had to find a quiet place by myself for a few minutes.
Today was the funeral proper. Again it was too long.
I was curious about how I would do. I did just fine. I think that the last nail was sunk with the "clunk" of that Cadillac's back door. And eighteen hundred miles and a sketchy Internet connection probably also helped.
I had been concerned for my father. He had been affected by Granddad's passing harder than I had ever seen anything affect him. After today I was encouraged. He has made it over the hump and is moving onward, upward, and inward. (Don't tell him I said this. He doesn't like fusses.)
So, I think that I am ready to move on now.
How does one segue from the most traumatic experience in the last eighteen years of their life?
How do you go from: "I helped carry my mentor, Granddad, and friend's body out" to "The weather is wonderful out here . . ."
I kept looking at this thing and wondering: "What is the point? Why bother? This cathartic therapy is so insignificant in light of recent events."
But then we had the local memorial service, and I was presented with the perfect close to the volume.
I didn't realise how much I had been affected by Granddad's passing until I noticed that every day after, I felt a little bit better than I did the day before. One week after the event I think that I must have been about ninety percent. Up from about sixty or seventy percent.
Then last Sunday we had the service.
Over the week there had been much debate about whether or not there would be an open casket. Some needless debate had prevented the mortician from performing his task promptly and nature had undauntedly continued on its coarse.
Having seen Granddad, a few short hours after he had passed, and having his image to this moment sealed into my mind, I personally had no desire to see him. Obviously I had no say, other than my opinion, which was never asked for, but freely given at the first opportunity.
I have never understood the need to see a corpse to find closure. I wonder if disbelief prevents people from finding peace and moving on, and so, like Philip, until they actually see the body, they refuse to believe, or accept the stated facts. After all, just because you disagree with a truth, doesn't make it untrue. And the longer that you disagree with truth, the more difficult, and dangerous, it becomes to align yourself with the truth. But I digress.
Please believe me that I have no problem with people who need to see the corpse to find closure. I don't think any less of those persons. I just don't understand. And lack of understanding is not a sin. With some things we have to grow up in order to understand.
So last Sunday they had an open casket. I still had no desire to see the body, but as I am the sound guy I new that there would be no way I could avoid it. So, fortune favors the bold, I went up front, and peered down upon the man that was laid at state in the simple brown casket. It was not Granddad. Sure, the man wore his glasses, but it wasn't him. It looked nothing like him. Nature had seen to that. I think that I breathed a sigh of relief. And now, looking back, I am glad that I looked.
I told some friends that if I was a conspiracist I would have started shouting "Where is he?! What have you done with him?! I know he's not dead! Take me to him now!" We joked that yeah, maybe he was on a secret South Pacific island with JFK, Hoffa, Elvis, and Apostle John.
But he is not. He is now more resplendent than imagination could possibly comprehend.
The service itself was far too long. It took four, wandering, meandering hours to get to the eulogy, which should have been gotten to in an hour.
But then it was too soon. My brothers spoke and I realised, not having spoken with them in depth about Granddad's passing, that they where just as devastated as I had been. And then the pallbearers were called, of which I was one.
I was disappointed that there was no actual carrying of the casket, we simply held the handles and rolled it along on its gurney until we got to the back of the hearse, and then we lifted; a little.
I understand why there was no manual portage, but man, that would have been the icing.
I didn't think I had any tears left. I hadn't cried since the day of his transition. But after they shut the back hatch of the hearse and pulled away, I had to find a quiet place by myself for a few minutes.
Today was the funeral proper. Again it was too long.
I was curious about how I would do. I did just fine. I think that the last nail was sunk with the "clunk" of that Cadillac's back door. And eighteen hundred miles and a sketchy Internet connection probably also helped.
I had been concerned for my father. He had been affected by Granddad's passing harder than I had ever seen anything affect him. After today I was encouraged. He has made it over the hump and is moving onward, upward, and inward. (Don't tell him I said this. He doesn't like fusses.)
So, I think that I am ready to move on now.
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