My father’s funeral
When I attended my father’s funeral several years ago, many things struck me and flooded my memories of my time with him as a child and too as an adult. Overwhelmed at the loss of my father as well as my friend, but also of the loss to this country of a patriot. I have a feeling or obligation to qualify that statement a little. I call him a patriot because as I was growing up in the sixties watching rioting and looting on the nightly newscasts, he would say, “Go hippies!” in his enthusiastic way, often shaking his fist at the screen. His meaning of the hippies actions were to him a good thing. Yelling at the television screen as those “hippies” demonstrated against the Viet Nam war, or protecting (at least trying) to protect their freedom of speech at Kent State, or the 1968 democratic convention. The surprising thing was that my father was a man of modest means, attending college part-time to earn his engineering degree in electronics, actively helping to raise his five children, one of which was at that time, considered mentally retarded, all the while volunteering for the Army National Guard. This seems now, with the benefit of hindsight, a contradiction of terms. Praising “hippies’ and civil disobedience. Similar to “Special report with Britt Hume, or Bob Hope Special", on the fixed news channel.” Here was a man who would dress in his uniform on weekends or during national disasters and confront sometimes the very hippies he privately urged and encouraged to endure. That to me is what this republic of our great nation is. We all wear our own uniforms or masks and at different times, we are responsible either by family or job obligations to perform contrary to our beliefs. At least that is how it was in the 1960 is when and where I grew up. When I was twelve years old, I had the opportunity to attend a little music festival in upstate New York. Many of you may have heard of it. Sadly, my parents did not allow me to attend this event (known as Woodstock of course); however, in 1971 I was granted the opportunity to attend a Grateful Dead concert in Austin Texas. This is where I lost all respect, (almost) for Arlo Guthrie as he threw a tantrum on stage about how out of tune a technician had made his piano. It had more to do with how out of tune the crowd was to having to endure Arlo perform before the Grateful Dead, I think.
Now getting back to my fathers funeral and the reason for this rant. He was interred in a tiny little town north of Idaho Falls, Idaho. With a post card view of the Grand Tetons to the east. Nevertheless, since he was a veteran there was a full twenty-one gun salute. The color guard all where eighty years old and a few of the seven men were older. Many of them dragged their guns as they marched in their own fashion to the gravesite. Many had to have another relative (I assume), hold the gun barrels up in the air and reload. There were seven of these old-timer veterans firing three shots each. It was the only time that the particular brand of my father’s ironic sense of lifestyle, humor, and essence shined enough to bring a sly smile to my face. All day long, I had been too filled with grief. I was asked to sing and perform on guitar a song that my father had told me he wanted at his funeral. The song is a ditty called, “When the Works All Done This Fall.” I rehearsed it in the funeral homes sanctuary a few hours before the actual services, alone with his open casket, with my wife dutifully enduring listening to the umpteenth versions, of the cowboy standard, but this was the first I actually performed it for my father. I sang all the verses, if I recall there were seven, with the chorus every two verses. I played it finger-stylye, capoed all the way at the seventh fret, so it had a bell like quality to the instrumental portions. Now I am not known as the greatest vocalist but in that key, I was able to keep the pitch close to where it needed to be for my limited range. I was not able to make it through the actual service with all of the verses, as I was too grieved, so I sang and played an abbreviated version for those who were present. If you are asked to sing at, one of your parent’s funerals, and you were very close to that parent, I do not recommend it. It was probably the most emotionally difficult thing I have ever done, or do.
My mother worked, part-time, as well as attending a high school degree equivalency program at night. Even though she was twenty-two years older than I was, she graduated high school one year before I did I kid her often. They were divorced by the time my father succumbed to his colon cancer, but she was welcomed at the funeral. Then my evil stepmother ended up stealing all of his children’s inheritances. This will be a rant for another time.
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