“After your death you will be what you were before your birth.” – Arthur Schopenhauer
I was sitting in my Blazer feeling dazed. The little flag mounted on the left side of my hood flopped wildly in the February wind. It was so cold. I put on my sunglasses because the bright morning sun glared terribly off the newly fallen snow. There was a line of cars parked in front of me that reached down the street. One by one they drove away single file with their headlights on. Soon it was my turn. As I put the Blazer in gear and pulled away from the curb, I thought about my grandma.
For me, she was the perfect, almost stereotypical grandma. Her cookie jar was always full, she never forgot my birthday, and she was always there for me when I needed her. When I was a kid, my sisters and I had to walk the mile or so to school. Sometimes we rode our bikes, but when it was raining, Grandma would pick us up. I remembered her car- a big mid-seventies Caprice. I remembered the drone of the wipers as they whipped back and forth across the windshield. I remembered the slow clinking of her turn signal indicator when she dropped us off. I clicked mine on.
Our long parade of cars and SUV’s slowly made its way through town. I noticed one or two pedestrians look on with interest. A few motorists pulled over to the side of the road to let us pass. For the most part of the trip, however, we passed through the city unnoticed.
A police car blocked the traffic for us at the cemetery. The hearse made a left turn and the rest of us followed. I’d made this trip with my Grandma many times before. I remembered her sitting next to me as I drove, chatting about the weather or the latest going ons in the family. We’d make the trek twice a year- once in the spring to set potted plants next to the graves of her husband and son, (my Grandpa and uncle) and once in the fall to retrieve them.
When I reached the top of the hill, a big two-sided tent came into view. It was pitched in a familiar spot. The hearse had already come to a stop near it. I parked my Blazer, took a deep breath, and got out. I made my way to a small group of men that had gathered there. “Is everybody here?” one asked. He opened the tailgate. There were six of us altogether, three on a side. We pulled the casket out the back, turned around, and made our way down a hastily shoveled path towards the tent.
Father Mike was waiting for us. He smiled as we set the casket down on the stand. Then he motioned for the rest, a small but very devoted group of family and friends, to come in out of the wind. We huddled together and Father led us in prayer.
Our Father who art in heaven…
Hail Mary full of grace…
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.
We passed around some flowers (souvenirs of this sad day) and then the service was over. The tent rustled in the wind. I glanced around and I could sense that the group of my shivering, teary-eyed relatives wanted to stay longer.
But it was so damn cold.
We dispersed and when I got back to my Blazer, I turned around for one last look. It was one of those scenes that I knew I’d always remember- the tent, the casket, the blowing snow. I felt bad for leaving, but I knew my Grandma wouldn’t be alone. She’d be right between my Grandpa and Uncle Danny now and forever.
“Goodbye Grandma.” I said aloud as I drove away. I knew with time the details of this sad day would slowly fade from my memory. Life would go on. It didn’t seem right that things would go back to normal, not after today. I also knew in the back of my mind that it didn’t really matter.
Because I’d always remember my Grandma.
Florence Bluemle
Jan. 6, 1916 to Feb. 13, 2007