Polly Died Yesterday
Polly died yesterday.
Mr. Bradburn died last Friday.
Beattie died a couple of weeks ago.
Linda died a couple of weeks before that. This trend needs to stop right now. At least for long enough to let me
re-equilibrate after all these people shedding their mortal coils right and
left.
Polly was my sister’s mother-in-law, Mary A Landgraf, but was
called Polly by everyone, including her only granddaughter. She had lived with my sister and my sister’s
husband, her son, for about thirty years, which meant that she was a member of
my family, too, especially after my mother died about twenty years ago. Polly was sharp as a tack, even though she
was almost 103 when she died. She was
the one in the family who could remember things—correctly.
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Mr. Bradburn was my almost 96-year old neighbor who was so
incredibly good to me, including mowing my grass on his trusty riding lawn
mower. He would also occasionally
weed-eat around the edges, but with his failing eyesight and less dexterity, he
frequently left little divots of dirt where the weedeater hit the ground. Oh, well, a small price to pay.
I went to his funeral
yesterday. I took Mrs. Johnson, who is
my age, but who seems to me to be a lot older than me. Is this typical of us “oldsters”?
The service was in a funeral home up in
Madison County, the next county over from Asheville. Very country.
Very mountain people country. In
fact, before and during the service a woman played old-timey hymns on the piano
in the mountain style---lots of the same embellishments over and over, and lots
of repetitions of the same hymn, over and over.
And when she commenced to sing, why you’d have thought she was Loretta
Lynn.
Then the preacher, who obviously had never laid eyes on Mr.
Bradburn before he saw him in the open casket (another Protestant mountain
tradition, or maybe it’s just Southern), seemed afraid to ever mention Mr.
Bradburn’s name. He referred to him as
“our brother” and “our veteran” (Mr. B was a proud vet, but that is another, or
many other stories). Perhaps Mr. Bradburn’s first name—Blufford—scared
him. He might have been afraid he’d
mispronounce it. Or maybe he couldn’t
believe anyone would actually be called Blufford. Actually, some people called Mr. B “Brad” and
I’m sure that in the Army he was called Bradburn.
Anyhow, the preacher preached, as in reading
a bunch of Bible verses and then referring back to them over and over without ever
making any connection with Mr. B. It was
fifteen or twenty minutes of the same ten phrases used again and again in
various combinations. It seemed to me
that it was probably harder to do that than to have actually read a prepared
sermon. Oh, well.
The pallbearers were interesting. You need some younger guys to be able to
carry the weight of the coffin (a lovely coffin, Mr. B had bought and paid for
it himself several years ago), and these guys were young and local and sporting
tattoos and ponytails and casual shirts.
At least they all wore long pants.
Mr. B’s son got up to say a few words, but after only about 10 or 12
words, he sat down. This was hard for
him. When your Daddy lives to be 95, I
guess you start thinking he’ll be around as long as you are.
Anyhow, Mrs. Johnson and I elected not to
drive to the graveside ceremony (another 25 minutes away) although I would have
liked to have seen the military ceremony. She and I neither one can stand for
very long.
Later that afternoon, Mr. B’s son was out mowing grass like a fury;
I guess he needed to work off some sadness.
Mr. B would have approved. He
never liked sitting around, especially if there was a garden to be tilled or
wood to be cut.
Rest in Peace, Mr.
Bradburn.
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My friend Beattie died of complications of Parkinson’s
disease and lymphoma. She was 88 and had
lived enough different lives to befit 3 or 4 people. She was Jewish and her funeral couldn’t have
been more different from Mr. B’s. She
had an extended family, all of whom were in attendance, including a very
talented granddaughter who not only wrote the best obituary I’ve ever read but
also gave a moving eulogy to her grandmother at the funeral service.
The funeral was held at the temple Beattie
and her family attended, the very same temple she snookered me into being the
accompanist when the choir practiced.
That only lasted a year or so until they got someone who was actually
competent, but I did enjoy it, and I was familiar with the temple itself. I was surprised, though, at how little
religion there was in Beattie’s service.
The 23rd Psalm was recited, and the rabbi (a woman) chanted
some as the casket was wheeled out at the end, but most of the rest was devoted
to (planned) eulogies to Beattie.
Very
nice, indeed.
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When my pancreatic cancer-stricken friend Linda died, I only
accidentally learned of it when, after several attempts at calling her at home,
her daughter answered and promptly burst into tears. It seemed that Linda had died about a week
before, but no one in our cancer support group was notified by her daughter and
there was no obituary in the paper. The daughter said they will have a memorial
service at her house this spring and invite our group. They will plant a lilac tree and bury Linda’s
ashes beneath it. I wonder if that will
really happen, though. I can see that
some sort of “closure”—no matter how simple or brief—would have been nice for
our support group. We develop very close
ties to each other while we’re alive.
And we’re all feeling somewhat at loose ends
about Linda.
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