*blink*
“Where the fuck am I? Oh yeah. Indiana.”
*sigh*
“Again.”
It took senses a minute to congeal into coherence inside the darkness of that rented Porter County hotel room. After having fought the 69/94 gauntlet, reconvening with extended family shortly after wheels down, and just the whole stress of the situation, sleep did not come easy when the world finally stopped moving. Even after being nudged with the better part of a bottle of blackberry infused literary lubricant.
At least that part of the plan worked. Although the resulting words of a first part were more idiosyncratic than intended. But that’s probably the fault of the idiot sitting behind the typewriter.
I am not sure I will ever understand the reasons behind why she stuck so hard inside my head on the drive down. But stuck she was. As evidenced by the 1,000 word temper-tantrum post made without clear recollection of having hit that SUBMIT button.
The splinter of her had been demanding some attention for a while now. Like splinters often do. Especially when cheerfully ignored for too long. And I guess I finally ran all out of ignoring.
It would be easy to blame it all on the weather. This unpredictable season of falling things. The one canvassing these flyover fields left naked and raw after the harvest. A stark reminder reflected back in the broken corn that it’s coming up on that time of year again.
There was still a lot of static in my head after maybe only four hours of sleep. Not nearly enough rest for the day ahead. But it would have to do.
The funeral mass was scheduled to start early.
I funneled multiple cups of hotel coffee into my veins pumping sludge while simultaneously gunning parking lot smokes—the breakfast of idiots rampers writers champions. Grey squirrels frantically doing squirrelly things with their nuts paused long enough to size me up. Chucking and twitching at me from the security of their elevated branches.
It was far too early in the day to be hassled by judgemental squirrels. So I left them to their nutty business and bopped over the tracks to the church.
I rolled into a parking lot already starting to fill—he was a popular guy. My tires had been still for maybe 5 seconds before I suddenly realized the hilarity of an oversight that truly did not occur to me until that precise moment.
I was still running the roads with my trusty copilot, Skelly.
Just as the enormity of that mistake was taking hold inside my brain, a car pulled into the space beside me.
“Oh, shit.”
The doubletake that poor woman did was epic in nature. She appeared equal parts terrified and appalled.
I sheepishly waved in an effort to reassure her that no, Death wasn’t coming for her next. Admittedly, I probably didn’t need to then lift Skelly’s arm in an impromptu wave, too. But it seemed a friendly enough gesture. And just one of the many benefits of rolling up to a funeral with a full-sized skeleton in your car.
The fellow mourner, however, was visably mortified. And did her elderly best to shuffle inside as quickly as possible.
I, however, was choosing to linger a bit.
Having one last pre-mass smoke, I sat and pondered the brilliant marketing of Saint Patrick. I mean not just anyone can transform their only worldly possession of “no snakes” into a lasting, ecclesiastical legacy. And eventual patron Sainthood. One replete with lovely cathedrals across the world. One of which I was only moments away from visiting.
I joined the crowd of familiar faces and navigated to the front of the church. More forward than I would have preferred, honestly. My social anxiety was already skyrocketing. But sometimes, you just have to suck it up and be a part of the family.
Admittedly, I am not now, nor have I ever been, much of a Catholic. To a cheerful agnostic outsider, the whole situation was rather confusing. Not because I disagreed with things purely on theological grounds. Because I didn’t know the code. And there didn’t seem to be an available cheat sheet.
The priest would say something. Then everyone gathered in my Uncle’s memory would respond in unison. And I was just sitting there going “Wait, what? Was I supposed to say something, too? Fuck! Oh, shit. I just thought ‘fuck’ in a church. Damn it! I thought it again.”
And I certainly do not mean to offend. Just because organized religion isn’t my particular cuppa doesn’t mean I have to be a dick about it. People find comfort in a variety of ways; people are free to believe whatever they hell they want. I’m more of a “type and let pray” kind of guy.
I’m just saying it was all a bit bewildering to an outsider.
But maybe that’s just because my Uncle’s ashes were enclosed in a small box sitting in an honoured place at the front of the church, instead of his ass being in a comfortable chair, legs crossed, beer in hand and his shirt missing in action. Because while the prayers, pageantry, and hymns were gentle…and added a comforting softness for some…it was still just a shitty situation.
Because it was so unexpected.
And because he was supposed to be taking his first post-surgery steps. Not being carried respectfully down the aisle of St. Patricks in Chesterton by his children.
That fucking hurt.
I’m sure he would have been proud of all his grandchildren, though. Because despite the tenderness of age, they all made it through their respective readings in front of a crowded church. Each one brought a part of themselves to their assigned words, be that tears, stumbles, or sobs. A significant accomplishment, considering the underlying grief of the day.
After the Communion, where I fought the urge to try church crackers for the first time, they carried my Uncle away. And while his absence could never be filled, the kind ladies at St. Patrick’s were sure as hell going to try with their wonderful cooking.
The details of the luncheon were conveniently printed on the itinerary. And the priest mentioned it many times, too. Even somehow talked himself into saying the luncheon prayer early, obstinately because of the logistics involved.
But then I noticed he never actually showed up.
And that left me with…questions.
The poorly drawn map of the campus grounds on the itinerary answered a different question, however. One that had nagged me since my earliest exposure to the Bible. Because had we actually followed that arrow, we would have been wandering the desert, too. Only the one of northwestern Indiana instead of Egypt. And hopefully not for forty years.
But eventually, we found the right place.
The room was full. The food was amazing. And the acoustics were terrible. My ears are often uncooperative in the best of circumstances. But put me somewhere amongst the noisy clutter and I transform into a smiling, nodding potato. Because it’s all just a low rumble, nonsensical mumble. And that makes me even more anxious.
So it was time to temporarily tap out.
I leaned into the compulsion to run back to the cold darkness of that Porter County hotel room and just be absorbed into the silence. Plans were in place for the family to all gather a bit later. And I knew that I would need a recharge if I were to competently participate in those shenanigans.
It had been one hell of a day; knowing our family, it was going to be one hell of a night.
Because he was one hell of a guy.
And we fucking miss him…
