Everything Was Tasty and Okay...

I am going to finish this narration of my trip to North Dakota today if it's the last thing I do. So I apologize in advance for any ellipses or omissions (not that you will really tell) but my memories are growing fuzzy and I want stop reviewing those moments; I want to let them pass comfortably into my real memory, instead of trying to hog tie them repeatedly to the present.

I got to sleep late from the night of drinking; I suppose it was around two am, but I was in no condition to tell exactly. I was told that my cousin Chase, who drove us back to the hotel, was weaving considerably, I am glad I was in no condition to perceive that either. I slept well, and heavily, my brother in the next bed. My family was kind enough to let us sleep until eleven or so and then roused us to get dressed and have breakfast with them. This we did though, unlike them, we didn't take the trouble of putting on our nicer togs for the occasion. We went to a "family restaurant they call the "Fryn' Pan". In New York or New Jersey it would be called a diner and have a bit more neon and be run by Greeks. Out there it was esssentially a Denny's knock-off. I am stillt trying to understand the particular placement of the apostrophe in their name. Apparently it's a chain. I ordered the biscuits and gravy, which I thought, mistakenly, would be a safe bet. The lumps of sausage rested in the gluey gravy like rabbit pellets
in mush. The coffee ( no iced coffee available, of course) was tepid and weak, and the cream and sugar were all in those little packets so after two cups of coffee the pile of trash begins to overwhelm the table. In the middle of the meal, the waitress came over to check up on things. Her line of inquiry was "So, is everything tasty and okay over here?" This was delivered in that particular Dakotan/Minnesotan nasal twang and was so gol'darn perky I had to struggle to keep from snorting up my coffee. It was also a question that seemed to invite, yet stubbornly resisted, an honest response.

My brother and I left the rest of the family to return to the hotel, finish our ablutions, tie those half-windsors, and rejoin them at the church. Once there we were still rather early, so there was plenty of standing around with nothing to do. Like the previous evening, but more strongly now, an incredibly acrid smell of manure filled the air and even made it's way into church. This was only appropriate, I suppose. I notice I forgot to mention that it was pouring. In Britain they would say it was tipping down rain and it continued to tip all day long. it was cold, fifty degrees or worse, with an unrelenting wind driving the rain in front of it and into our faces. Finally we took our places for the beginning of the serv ice. My brother Mike and I were chosen as active pallbearers (in contrast to a handful of honorary ones) which meant we were to sit in front away from the rest of the decedent's family. All of these arrangements were being directed by the )appropriately named) funeral director. But noone told us then that our family would be participating in a moment of close family prayer and together, a last viewing of the open casket before it was closed for the service. I was disappointed in missing it. The service was substantially similar to the wake service of the previous day; mainly it lacked the humor. The music was the same except that my uncle had at some moment requested that his funeral should open with the Adaggio for Strings and close with the Hallelujah Chorus. The latter I am overly familiar with, the former was new to me and is the saddest song I have ever heard; I need to buy it on CD. His son sang again, his daughter as well; those songs still come to me at odd moments. The service ended.

The pallbearers were called to lead the recession out of the sanctuary (all these wonderful church terms; like "narthex," it feels good to put them to use.) Once in the narthex (hey, how about that), near the front doors, the pallbearers seized the coffin, which had been wheeld out on its bier (now maybe that's not the right word for it) and lifted it three feet to the rear of the hearse. I had feared it's weight, but it was lighter than I expected, though four of the people lifting were my uncle's sons, and very young. The funeral director offered mu brother and I a ride in his car, so we could be near the hearse when it reached the cemetery. We accepted, got in, and drove to the front of the parking lot while we waited for the congregants (see? those neat words again) to get in their cars and prepare to process to the internment site. The funeral director was something of a jolly old soul; while waiting he traded remarks with the head of the Breckenridge police, who would be leading us away from the church. I guess they have had ample time to get acquainted. The director mentioned that, unlike in most towns and cities, the police here don't charge for these funeral processions; they do them for free. Maybe it's a welcome bit of activity. We pulled out of the lot at a creeping speed with four or five police cars blocking traffic with their sirens and flashing lights breaking the dullness and gloom. The director regaled my brother and I with old tales of himself and Wahpeton, his formation of a deer-hunting club, his life in small town. I think he would be fun to down some whiskey with; I will have to imagine it. Near the church, the Breckenridge cops retired and were replaced by the Wahpeton cops as we crossed into their jurisdiction. They led us into the cemetery where we stopped as near we could to the burial plot.

We stayed in the car until everyone else had arrived behind us. Then the pallbearers assembled, clapped on to the casket and drew it out onto it's moveable bier. Because the ground was soft from rain, we took it very slowly, and carried it as much as we rolled it, over the graves and plaques, and between the headstones, to the hole witht the tent over it where the last words would be spoke. There we slid it onto that machinery of straps and rollers built to lower it effortlessly into the ground, carpeted around with astroturf and all shielded so the family may gain no glimpse of actual dirt, or darkness, or void. The tent could only shelter ten or so people yet more than twenty crowded in. My cousin Dierdre was barefoot as she had given her shoes to her mother, whose own shoes were apparently completely unfit for the weather.

The last words were said; I can't remember them. In the following silence my aunt sang the benediction familiar to most protestants and we all joined in. People separated slowly, and we left.

The first reception was at a nearby church with a larger reception hall. It was nice to be able to sit at the table reserved for family. The repast was meager; the tables were all set with pitchers of lemonade and carafes of weak, weak, coffee, and with no cream or sugar in sight. This didn't diminish its popularity. The spread of eats included buns with cold cuts and sweets (more desert bars of all shapes). All the buns and bread were pre-spread with cheese (probably better spelled as cheeze, since that is what it tasted like). Humorously, this included the cinnamon raisin bread. All my cousins and sibling are cultured enough we found this humorous. Conversation was lively, banal, typical of family gatherings. I was introduced to distant second cousins I will never meet again; half the crowd were townspeople. The reception was prepared by my uncle's coworkers at the town health clinic. They had all worn blue; the entire clinic had shut down for the day (to hell with the ill!) and over fifty of the staff turned out to the funeral. Before that reception broke up we took family photographs:

The Grandchildren

The elders

The remaining siblings and parent

And my immediate family

That reception ended and we proceeded to the second reception. Between the two my brother returned to the hotel to change back into civvies; I also took the opportunity to pick up some more cigarettes at $3.50 a pack. The second reception was at the original church and was for immediate family only. They cooked hamburgers on an outdoor grill, had potato salad (prepared by a person who had attended cooking school I was told); there was more coffee, lemonade, and leftower desert bars. We sang a prayer of thanksgiving, ate and talked, and passed the evening. When that ended, us cousins went back to my aunt's house. We were somewhat guilted back, as most of us were exhausted and wanted to have a beer. But it was a good thing. We sat around and played board games with our cousins, the children. We spoke of movies and their plans for their summer. We unwound. We left by eleven; beer was then out of the question as we were all exhausted.

The rain had ceased finally, the clouds were blowing away and I think I could see the moon. I packed up and made ready so I could throw on my clothes the next day and leave in a split second. I woke at 4; my brother Mike and sister and I got out and on the road in the peaceful dark and made our way to the airport. There we waited with others in the only cafe open, waiting for the first flight of the day. My sister decided to give me relationship advice and explain that, whatever the faults of my ex-wife, her complaints about me were not unjustified or inexplciable. This was sensible talk, but yet a conversation I prefer to avoid. We were all on the same flight but sat apart, and didn't talk for the return. Landing in Chicago we separated and I returned to New York by 1 pm, in plenty of time to rest and catch up on sleep before returning to work the next day.

Death is tiresome and unpleasant; the rituals surrounding it are necessary, valuable, and must be endured and enjoyed as much as one can. I am glad I have written it down.