John

 

John in a fez and with a nail through his head.

 

I don't have enough words to write about my Uncle John.

Ones that come to mind easily are: Funny, generous, smart, joyful, loving, curious, enthusiastic, and kind. 

The only negative words that cross my mind would be: Occasionally inappropriate. Some jokes didn't land. Some attitudes took time to evolve, but they eventually did. Because John was a true lifelong learner who never stopped reading and wanting to know more in order to be better and more compassionate.

My Uncle John was the youngest of his three siblings, and from his earliest days provided some of the all-time most enjoyed family stories. He was often compared to the Eddie Haskall character from TV as always a source for a bit of trouble.

As a baby in an old version of a wheelie saucer, he once got into the kitchen garbage and rubbed coffee grounds into his hair right before Grandma had company arriving and she'd spent all day cleaning everything. She said it was a terrible mess and he just grinned and laughed.

My grandma used to talk about how my mom and Joe would be contentedly playing a game on the floor, only to have John toddle over and sit on the board.

Once as a small child John didn't get his way and his parents heard him yell and stomp loudly up every single stair in protest. At the top there was a pause as he listened for a reaction, and finally said out loud to himself, "Well, that didn't work."

John once got separated from Grandma in a department store, and after a frantic search she located him sitting on the floor of a shop reading a comic book. He looked up and said, "Where have you been?" 

When John was a teenager learning to drive, my grandpa used to describe a harrowing trip around the block where he tried to direct John away from various obstacles such as garbage cans and curbs and parked cars. In Grandma's telling of the story, it always ended with Grandpa simply walking silently into the house afterward and putting himself into a room behind a closed door for a long time. Supposedly John called after him, "How did I do?"

Possibly my favorite story of John as a kid is how he used to ask his dad for an advance on his allowance, and then still collect his full allowance at the end of the week. His siblings were annoyed, but didn't protest until the day Grandpa reached into his pocket and didn't have enough for a full allowance for everyone, and started to reduce equally what each person was given. My mom and Joe cried foul, pointing out John regularly got more than they did due to his frequent advances. My grandfather was an accountant for Sears.

John's college stories always seemed heavily edited for young ears, but we did hear he hung around with a frat-mate named Bubble, and it was implied much beer was consumed and much fun was had. Most famously it was described how little he studied, but how infuriatingly well he did anyway. John used to regale us with how diligently his wife Charlotte studied, and how he decided to crack open a book only the night before exams. He startled everyone by graduating magna cum laude, and then turned to his parents and said if only he'd studied an additional day he "could have been summa cum laude!" 

He was overwhelmingly well-liked in his town of Marysville, despite being an outspoken Democrat in a bright red sea of Republicans. My favorite testament to his abilities as a lawyer came in the form of a condolence message to my cousin Tony a day or so after John's passing. The guy said John was the nicest person who ever prosecuted him, and even though he disagreed with the verdict, he admired John's professionalism. Then he added a P.S. saying, "I was totally guilty. Lol! That man did a professional job."

John's relationship with his mom after my grandpa died was really funny. Grandma was organized and practical and punctual. John less so, much to her exasperation. 

He used to do Grandma's taxes for her (mine too, when I was a student at OSU) and the only payment he charged family was that he got to check the box for a donation to the Presidential Election Campaign Fund. But as a lawyer he did a lot of taxes, and he treated the April 15th deadline for mailing it all in as a holiday. I think Gram went with him once to the post office which had extended hours and a band playing, and she said he celebrated with the postal employees as he turned everything in at the last possible minute. This always made my grandma anxious to have something important happen right up against a deadline, but that was John.

John also used to happily announce if we were all out to dinner that the check should "go to Mom." He paid for many things and made sure she was always comfortable and cared for, so she could certainly manage to pay for dinner, but I think he just liked the look on the waitstaff's faces when they'd start to hand him the bill at the end of the meal and he would loudly make sure we all knew Grandma was paying. She always smiled and shook her head and pulled out her wallet.

He made sure Grandma had a really comfortable chair up at the cottage that she could nap in. He's been the one tending her grave since she died.

I had the opportunity to live in my Uncle John's house for a summer when I was in college. I needed to live somewhere in Ohio before the start of my sophomore year in order to qualify for in-state tuition, and John found me a job with the Department of Transportation in Marysville. I mostly worked as a flagger on a road crew, standing in jeans and boots and a reflective vest and hardhat in hundred degree heat. I think John also intended to make me appreciate the value of a college degree after a summer of lower skilled work. There was a time where there was a produce truck on fire that necessitated all the cargo be discarded, and all the DOT workers got to help ourselves to as many singed vegetables as we could carry. John laughed when I walked in with all that food saying I was finally pulling my weight in the house. The wildest day was when a box fell off a truck (that according to local news was either going to, or coming from, somewhere) and they had to call a hazmat team to investigate. The call went out to any truck in town with lights on it to go to the scene. I was in a truck with a couple of guys, and we chose to park under an overpass where it was shady. It was pointless for us to be there, so we may as well have been pointless in a cooler spot. After a little while, some official stuck his head in our truck to tell us to "EVACUATE MARYSVILLE!" How? To where? John absolutely loved that story.

Living in John's house was really fun. My youngest cousin, Mary, is ten years younger than I am, so she was nine and I was nineteen. We were roommates who somehow shared clothes despite the age difference, and she could sleep through anything so I would play music in our room in the morning as I got dressed. I loved time with cousin Tony and Aunt Char. Nobody was ever on time to anything. Meals were erratic but good. Friends and relatives came and went because everyone was always welcome.

That was always a given. If you showed up at John and Charlotte's house, you were welcome. If they weren't there, they'd tell you where the key was (under the flat rock at the top of the basement steps) and you could help yourself to whatever you needed. They provided a space that was a safety net for many. One of my kids once told me in a fit of worry about her future that she was afraid of failure and ending up homeless. I said to her, "Do you really think John and Charlotte would ever let that happen?" Because of course she knew we would be there for her always, and her grandma, and any number of family and friends who would not hesitate to help if she needed it, but the sheer bedrock of love and stability that was John and Charlotte was the most reassuring foundation I could conjure, and it helped.

John and Charlotte hosted many a Christmas Eve dinner. Possibly the best Christmas event was when we all left John alone to decorate the tree--which he insisted he could do--only to come home to the big reveal of the tree in the stand still bundled tightly in its net, a string of lights wound around it, and a giant bow slapped on the front. We laughed about it the whole night, and enjoyed a Christmas Rockin' Eve exchanging presents as we danced. I've seen many trees, but none as memorable as that one.

They'd have us for Easter if we were around. They held baby showers and birthdays and general cookout events in their home. They hosted the reception for my brother Arno's wedding to Deepanjana. 

John was the judge who married Arno and Deepanjana in the courthouse in Marysville. Arno's not particularly interested in common traditions, and was somewhat unprepared for ceremony details. We'd gone down to High Street in Columbus trying to find rings for them the day of the wedding, and the only things we could find were in this funky shop with incense and tie-dye shirts, and they found silver rings with lizards. Arno's had lizards all around. Deepanjana's was a slender ring with a single lizard on top. When John led them through the ceremony and got to the exchange of rings, we listened as he gently gave instructions to Arno, "Left hand. Next finger. Lizard up."

John loved travel. John loved history. John loved to read and his library was always one of my favorite rooms to spend time in. John loved the Boy Scouts and Detroit Coney Island Hot Dogs and his cats. 

More than anything, John loved his family. He adored his wife in a way no one could question. He used to call her "the Bunny" and he liked to say sweetly, "The Bunny makes my life a living hell" which always made her laugh and say, "Oh, John!" There were many things that made Charlotte say, "Oh, John!"

He loved his son and his daughter and his brother and his sister and his mom and his dad, and if you ever met him you got the sense there was love enough for you, too. He made love feel both special and commonplace. It was in abundant supply. 

He made meaningful contributions to his community without any desire for acknowledgement. He was generous in a way that should put wealthier people to shame, because in all ways that matter he was far richer than any billionaire could hope to be. 

John was a wonderful uncle. He was the kind of uncle who wanted to make you laugh and spoil you with all the stuff he knew parents wouldn't indulge. He gave big bear hugs.

He specialized in a sliding severed finger gag that never failed to amuse. The ultimate time for the finger trick was once in church after the pastor mentioned the many miracles of Jesus, and Tony said his dad caught his eye and flashed the finger slide as if to say "You want to see a miracle?" Tony said it was very hard not to laugh.

He would give us noisy presents like a Mr Microphone (which only a sibling would give another sibling's kids) and was quick to hand out treats. Even in recent years where I was now a middle-aged adult, he would give me cash as we were passing through on our way to New York so I could spend it on something fun there. John helped move heavy furniture into my first apartment in college. He drove me to Toledo several times to transfer me to my mom's car so she could take me home to Detroit on school breaks. All of his nieces and nephews knew he was proud of them. He loved us.

And John loved my kids, so he was not only a great uncle, he was a great Great Uncle. He was delighted to have my kids around, and regularly offered to take them if Ian and I ever wanted to travel alone. I also enjoy my kids, so never found a time where I would want to be apart from them on a trip, but I was always touched by the offer to watch them for us. Maybe I should have done that. I'm sure they would have had a blast. He took us to see Indian Mounds, and the topiary garden downtown, and bookstores. He read to my kids from "My Father's Dragon."

As the baby of his family, I think John had a special affinity for my youngest child. We didn't often have sugared cereal in our home, but when we came to visit in Ohio, John wanted to provide all the treats. He once handed Quinn a box of some sort of sugar bombs and said it was all for her and it wasn't for anyone else to eat. She demurred, because maybe that seemed like too much, but John insisted, and all that cereal was only Quinn's. Every subsequent visit over many years, John always provided Quinn with her own personal bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup. He knew being the baby meant always getting the hand-me-downs, and always having to share. John made it clear the chocolate syrup was for Quinn alone. 

John proudly displayed art my kids made. (To be fair, they make unusually good art.) He had hoped to visit Aden's college and have her give him a tour. He offered out of the blue to find Mona a job down in Ohio and let her live in one of their spare rooms when she was uncertain about what to do after high school. (She didn't feel that was the right direction for her at the time, but the fact that the option existed was incredibly reassuring at a time of many unknowns.) John was easily one of their favorite people in the world. This loss is hard on them.

Any average day with John was a good day. Aden described how her favorite was a time he was in Milwaukee, and the two of them drove around on errands, stopping for gas (where John chatted with the cashier about how he loved the city), and picking up pastries. The Canfora Bakery near the park had changed ownership, and the new pastries weren't as good as the old ones. The two of them started out excited about their cheese danishes, then slowly agreed the quality had declined. Aden said it felt nice to be included in a more grownup conversation, where her opinion was treated as equally valid. John didn't talk down to people. John was genuinely interested in what children had to say.

John passed away in his sleep after a birthday celebration in a restaurant for his daughter. He got to enjoy time with people he loved and hold court as he did at a table with good food. He was in his home next to his wife with no thought he wouldn't see the morning. In many ways he went exactly as many of us would wish to. Maybe it's better to have some warning. Maybe it's not. John had a wonderful and full life. I think he might have been painfully aware of how much more he wanted to do and how much he was leaving behind if he had known ahead he was about to die, so in John's case it was maybe best to go while content and looking forward to the next day.

News in small towns spreads quickly. Before the sun was up, people were already contacting my cousin saying how sorry they were, and food began arriving. The number of people coming forward to say, "John was my best friend" is moving. I can't believe how many plates of cookies keep coming to the house.

Funerals are strange things. There's grief side by side with joy. There are moments to worry the joy feels disrespectful, and other times when we know it's how we survive. There are people gathered we haven't seen in a long time. Having Domino along was not convenient, but she makes everyone smile, not just me. 

The sheer number of people who wanted to pay respects required a full day of viewings at the funeral home, in addition to the scheduled viewing prior to the funeral the next day. The open casket was hard for me, but it was very John. He was in his scoutmaster uniform, holding a favorite book (The Frontiersman by Allan W. Eckert). The room was filled with flowers and photos and a small shrine to beloved dog Smokey Joe. The music piped in included The Beatles, Paul Simon, and the soundtrack to Hamilton.

The receiving line in the morning was out the door and an hour-long wait. People drove from miles away. I don't know how my aunt and cousins had the strength to continue to greet so many people so graciously for such a stretch. 

The weather has been beautiful. The young cousins are enjoying each other's company. We somehow ended the viewing day feeling good, despite the terrible loss, which is how John would have wanted it. He would have enjoyed this gathering so much. I hope I play well for the funeral service later today.

John was a big personality with one of the biggest hearts I've ever known. John was funny, but when he was with his brother Joe the two of them were next level hilarious. At Joe's funeral only four months ago, John spoke of his brother going ahead of him into the afterlife to scout things out.

I thought we had longer with my Uncle John. I'm trying to remember to be grateful to have had him as long as we did, but it's hard not to be greedy and want more. I loved him dearly. I wish he weren't gone. 


ADDENDUM April 4, 2026:

The funeral was touching and funny. Mary read a poem by John from a book my mom recently made about his library. She finished with a poem John often quoted:

"You can look at a book and better still read it.

A book is a friend when you happen to need it.

And when you are through you can still think about it.

So hooray for books! Don't say it but shout it."

Those of us in attendance who knew the poem recited it along with her. 

Tony then proceeded to give the best eulogy I've ever heard. It was funny and sweet and moving and John would have loved it. The friend's eulogy that followed included the impromptu story of when Charlotte was very pregnant and someone asked if John was excited, and he replied, "I would be if I knew for sure I was the father." (I'm sure that got another "Oh, John!")

I played solo viola for about 45 minutes during the visitation. I used a viola I built for a friend in Ohio rather than the one I built for myself almost twenty years ago because I think the more recent one sounded warmer and more balanced. (I'm glad to see my work has improved over time.) As part of the service I played Simple Gifts. I'm glad I can offer music in a time when it's hard to know what will be meaningful to people as they are grieving. I think John would have enjoyed my playing.

Unfortunately my name was listed in the program as Kolby Klein. The minister apologized several times, and I told him I don't know if I have any programs from any funeral I've played with my name spelled correctly, so not to worry about it. Although "Kolby" is new. I've never met a Kolby, so that seems like an odd name to throw out there. On the plus side, I think he was so embarrassed that he did not do more than cast a sidelong glance at Domino sitting in the front pew. She was much appreciated emotional support for me, nestled by my side when I was seated, and contentedly watching me play when I was working.

The burial this morning was just family. There were military honors. Included in the casket were the ashes of both John's beloved cat Norman, and little dog Smokey Joe.

A representative (and family friend) from the funeral home that ran everything with such care this week read this poem, which I thought was lovely.

...Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference in your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word it always was. Let it be spoken without effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well.

— Rosamunde Pilcher, September

There were hugs. There was crying. We took turns laying hands on the casket. (I let Domino rest one of her paws on it because I know that would have made John smile.)

We went back to the house for food and a little more time together before we started the long drive home.

I think the image that will stay with me most from the funeral was looking up at one point and seeing all three of my kids comforting each other by the casket. It was just the three of them under the tent, arms around each other, heads bent. I cannot express how much it means to me that my children love each other, and find support in each other in hard times. That is what family should be. That is the thing I love most in this world. 

 

 

Solo

I'm preparing solo music for a funeral.

Twenty-some years ago, I was nearly always preparing music for weddings. Most of the time that was with a quartet, but I still had a binder at the ready to play alone if I had to. I played solo violin or viola for my brothers' weddings, and a few of my cousins'. I don't particularly like playing alone, so those performances were purely out of love.

I got out of wedding music work around the same time we opened the violin store, because the scheduling was impossible. Weddings are most often on Saturdays, and that's our busiest shop day, so it didn't work to do both. I miss playing regularly with a quartet. I don't miss playing weddings.

Now I have a funeral binder. I've reached an age where my peer group may be involved in the weddings of their children, but our parents are dying. 

I am grateful music is something I can offer to people I care about. Fresh grief is terrible. You can drift in and out of a kind of shock, and there are decisions to make when you are least interested in making them. But to be able to assure someone I can do the music for a funeral and they don't have to think about that at all feels useful in a way few other things can be at such a time. I'm always honored when people ask.

Music fills a space that relieves people from talking, interacting, or even thinking when they don't want to. People don't need to be rescued from sitting alone and listening to music, because music is company. It alters a space, and curates time.

There is some overlap in the wedding and funeral binders. Often slowing a piece down slightly and playing it more quietly is enough to move it from a celebratory sound to something more contemplative. The theme from Brahm's First Symphony, for instance, works nicely for a unity candle lighting or part of a march, but bring the tempo down a couple of clicks on the metronome and it's pleasant background at a memorial service.

The music I keep on hand for funerals tends to be simpler, primarily because there is not a lot of notice, and therefore less time to prepare. I have arrangements of pieces I used to teach my students, in addition to more advanced repertoire with small cuts over harder spots I might not have time to practice. Each piece has the amount of time it takes marked at the top so I can quickly adapt if I need something longer or shorter. There are places marked to repeat sections if I need to stretch something out.

I try to find a balance of music. There are pieces everyone knows and can name, such as Amazing Grace. There are pieces everyone knows and some can name, like Jesu Joy of Man's Desiring and Ave Maria. There are pieces usually only other musicians can name but sound familiar, including any unaccompanied Bach. And there are also obscure pretty things from the Baroque Era that I barely know what they are as I'm playing them. Those are important because pieces you recognize can catch your attention, and pieces you don't can provide a mental break where you can be comforted without being engaged directly. All the music at a funeral can't be somber, because all of the emotions at a funeral aren't somber. I find things with meaning, and things that are lighter and more animated. I mix all of these things up as feels right in the moment. 

Going through any binder of music stirs memories. 

There is the pair of Bourrees in the middle of the third Bach Cello Suite that always makes me think of my friend Heather. She's the most confident and dedicated violist I've ever known. We were roommates during a youth chamber guild concert series on Mackinac Island one summer when she showed me these Bourrees she had discovered at college and was enamored with. She liked to play the second one with a mute on, and she said she loved to practice them in a hallway at school that had a great echo.

There are pieces I taught to my students where I still hear my own advice to them in my head as I perform, and try to set a good example as I play.

There are pieces I worked on in college, and I still hear my teacher's advice to me as I play them, and try to do him proud.

There is a movement from a concerto that I got to play with an English teacher I adored who was also a pianist. We played for fun at his home and he agreed to play with me for my jury that semester, and it was one of the only performances in college where I was being judged that I wasn't nervous because I was enjoying myself.

There is Amazing Grace, which always makes me remember my grandfather. I was a teenager when he died and I last played that for him. That was forty years ago, and I remember his open casket, and the standing room only crowd that came to pay their respects. How different am I now compared to that child he knew? Would he even know me if he could somehow see me again? I feel like he would. I could use one of his hugs at any age. 

I played Amazing Grace again at my grandmother's funeral. She used to love to hear me practice, even though there are few things more cringe-inducing for a musician. I understand it, because I always liked hearing my own kids practice. It doesn't have to be perfect, it just has to be them. But when you are practicing you need to be free to make mistakes and potentially annoying sounds, and having someone there who actively wants to hear you practice feels akin to having them ask to watch you shower. It's embarrassing. But then, my grandmother used to help bathe me, too, once upon a time. I remember her washing my hair in the bathtub at her house as a child, and hilarity would ensue when their dog, Rusty, would sometimes appear and lick water off the edge of the tub. I miss my grandma every day. I would be thrilled to have her suffer through my practicing now if I could. 

Aside from general competence, the biggest differences I've found between students and professionals is dynamics, and the treatment of silence. 

When I used to have a teaching studio, I gave my students a handout about how to approach sight reading. The list of things musicians worry about when they look at a new piece of music is usually the reverse of what a listener responds to. Players fret about the right notes, then rhythm, bowings... the last thing they worry about is dynamics. But if you ask an audience to tell you what they noticed about a piece they just heard, they will tend to describe whether it was loud or soft first. So I always tried to direct my students to look at the dynamics before anything else. If they had to sightread for a judge, and they remembered to do any dynamics at all, they would stand out among everyone else at an audition. When I play at a funeral, most of my dynamic choices are dictated by the noise of the crowd. When there is a lull, it makes sense to take advantage of the quiet to play gentle pieces. I can play things at increased tempo and volume as the tempo and volume of the room rises.

Experienced musicians also know how to embrace silence. Students are scared of quiet. When I worked in the Music Cognition Lab at Ohio State, I was struck by the most common mistake young players made in our experiments. Almost universally, they could not hold the longest note for its full value in the piece we wrote for them to perform. It was only a half note, but they couldn't do it. They couldn't sit as the note decayed under their finger and let the time play out. They had to act, to interrupt the silence and move on, even though nothing about that would sound right if they were listening instead of doing. I find it's especially important when playing music at a funeral to be able to pause, and wait, and let the moment be. That's a bigger challenge when I'm playing alone, because anxiety is what makes you move too soon, and I find performing solo nerve-wracking.

I'm feeling the weight of loss lately. There are names in my address book that I come across when I do holiday cards that I can't bring myself to remove even though those people are no longer with us. There's nothing to send to my husband's mom anymore, or her aunt that we used to visit down in Illinois. My grandparents are gone. My uncle and aunt on my dad's side aren't with us to send pictures to. Several of my friends have lost parents, and a few have lost siblings. When my uncle passed away recently it was inappropriate for me to attend the funeral, and part of me may never get over that.

My father once told me while we were listening to a performance of And The Sheep May Safely Graze by Bach that he wanted me to play that at his funeral one day. 

But my dad didn't have a funeral. My dad's death in his home in the summer of 2015 was after more than a week of hospice where everyone who wanted to say goodbye did so in person, or wrote letters that we read to him aloud as they arrived. It was intense and complicated. There was anticipation of grief followed by deep sorrow, along with joy and humor and care. It was a profound time, and one that didn't need to be concluded with a traditional memorial gathering.

Except sometimes I am saddened that I didn't get to perform And The Sheep May Safely Graze on my viola in a space where the people who loved my dad could all be together to mourn his loss. It feels good to do something for someone who is gone, even if it's really for ourselves.

I didn't have any of my instruments with me when my dad died, because I literally dropped the tools from my hands at work when I received the call from my mom in the hospital, and I got straight into my car and drove to Michigan. I did play a little music by my dad's bedside on my brother's mandolin, but it didn't feel like what I had promised him years before.

Every funeral I play, I always add And The Sheep May Safely Graze. It reminds me of what the music is for, and helps me share the grief of those gathered whether I knew the person being remembered or not. 

It gives me a moment to play for my dad again.

It's not enough, but it's what I have to give. 

 

 

Goodbye to Harold

My Uncle Harold died almost two weeks ago.

It was a loss to our family, but also to the world which was better for having Harold in it.  My uncle was kind and funny and smart.  He loved his family.  He loved good grammar.  He loved to read and play golf and take pictures of people (and pets) he cared about.  I don't know anyone who ever met Harold who didn't like him.

I'm glad my children and I were able to make it down to Florida in time for the funeral.  I'm even gladder we were able to get there six months ago and spend some time with Harold while he was still with us, because visiting the dead is about respect, but visiting the living is about love.

I've encountered differing opinions on whether or not children should attend funerals.  I think as with nearly everything it depends on the circumstances and the people involved.  In our case, I don't want to shield my children from the realities of loss because it's part of learning to appreciate what we have.  When we attended my grandmother's memorial a few years ago the younger kids played together in a separate room, but my oldest (who was nearly 9) chose to sit with me and cry along with the adults.  She remembers it, and knows it was meaningful.

When the news came that my uncle's health was failing rapidly we discussed as a family what we should plan to do.  My father (Harold's younger brother) is not capable of that kind of travel at this time, and my brothers were geographically scattered too far to even have a chance of getting to a funeral on short notice, so we felt we needed to be there to represent our family.  The original thought was that I would fly out with maybe one child, and Ian would stay home with the dog and the remaining kids.  That seemed the most workable thing to do.  Of course in the spirit of, "The best laid schemes o' Mice an' Men, / Gang aft agley," we got the call of Harold's passing when Ian was out of state with the Army, and I scrambled off with all the kids in tow.

Travels and Tribulations

My Uncle Harold died on Wednesday.

I'm not quite ready to write about that, but feel I need to write something, so I'm going to dive back into my neglected blog to describe just the logistics of everything we experienced last week.

My uncle was 90, and he'd chosen to go off dialysis, so we knew the end was near we just didn't know when.  He knew.  He apparently predicted Wednesday, and had time to talk to my dad (his younger brother) and others on the phone who couldn't get to Florida to say goodbye.

We got the call about his passing on Wednesday afternoon, right as I was preparing to take the kids to their violin lessons.  Ian was out of state for Army work.

My dad's side of the family is Jewish, and in Jewish tradition funerals happen within 24 hours of a death.  Wisconsin is a long way from Florida (as we discovered firsthand back in February).  But our household was the only one even remotely available at that moment to go there to represent my dad, so I was determined to make that happen.  There had to be a way to get us down to Florida for a service the next day at 1:00.

Thankfully my brother, Arno, frequent flyer that he is living in New York and working in Seattle, offered to go online and find us tickets and a hotel.  I don't think we could have done this all without his help because we only had a couple of hours to get to the airport, and I had lots of arrangements to make at my end (making sure someone could cover the store, figuring out what to do with the dog, moving appointments and swim lessons...) in addition to packing and helping the kids find any clothes appropriate for a funeral.  (I didn't realize just how many tie-dye shirts my kids owned until we tried to find anything in their closets that looked serious and actually fit.)

I'd made crepes for breakfast in the morning, and had a stack of them set aside for a baked chicken-mushroom-crepe dish for dinner, and I just shoved those into a ziplock bag for snacks.  I'm glad I did, because all plans for eating in airports wound up being dashed, and aside from the paltry treats offered on the planes that was all the kids got to eat until we arrived at our hotel.

This is the point where I am going to say I have the best kids in the world.

Funeral for a Fish

Mona's pet fish, Rainbow, died this week.

The fish was not looking good for a while, and there were many tears in anticipation of his death.  Mona had a lot of time to contemplate life without her beloved fish.  Now that the worst has happened she seems to be doing okay.

Mona and Rainbow, 2011

Mona got her fish for her 8th birthday.  She has been an excellent fish owner.  We never had to remind her to feed Rainbow and she was good about cleaning out his bowl.  She made him a stocking that she hung up by the fireplace every Christmas.  (He usually got a small bottle of water.)




Mona put his bowl on her favorite plate.  She always provided colorful items nearby so Rainbow would have pretty things to look at.

Memorials Are for the Living (Babble)

A long time ago a college friend of mine told me of an odd dilemma.  An artist she knew was frustrated because her dying wish was to be cremated and her ashes fed to her friends in the form of brownies.  Everyone was appalled and no one wanted to eat the death brownies, so the artist asked my friend if she would sneak her ashes into brownies on the sly and feed them to her friends anyway.

Now, I don’t think the artist had any realistic expectation of an early death approaching, I think the whole thing was some overwrought creative thought process gone wrong.  But my friend was concerned.  She took the idea of a dying wish very seriously, and wondered if she should promise the artist to do as she asked even if she herself didn’t approve of it.

I looked at her and laughed because the whole thing was so gross, and then reminded her that dying wishes aren’t for the dying, they are for the people left behind.  It gives us something to do at a time when we are helpless.  It’s comforting to feel we are honoring the person who as died, but the dead person doesn’t know about it.  Memorials are for the living.  I told my friend that if it gave the artist a sense of peace to think someone would carry out her strange wish, go ahead and say she would.  It didn’t mean when the time came that she actually should, and in fact, I thought she owed it to other people not to.  My friend hadn’t considered that option and seemed relieved.  The dead have only as much power as we choose to give them.  And they don’t get to bake or serve brownies, with or without ashes to taste.

I thought a lot about the influence of the dead this past weekend when I was attending my grandmother’s memorial service.  I don’t think it could have gone any better.  Like many families we have issues that surface between certain relatives that can cause tension, but for the most part everyone loves one another and gets along well.  My grandma would have been pleased with everyone in attendance.  My mom and I brought several of her signature desserts.  I played my viola, although I admit I have never had more trouble focusing while trying to perform, so I hope my mistakes weren’t too noticeable.  My cousin, Tony, did an excellent job of organizing everything and keeping the service on track.  I was holding myself together pretty well until he began reading quotes from some of the letters from people who had been recipients of my grandmother’s charity work.  She ran a food pantry out of her basement and every Christmas she anonymously sent gifts to needy families.  One letter thanked ‘the friend’ who had provided so many beautiful presents for their children who had been expecting nothing that year, and who turned to them all bright eyed and happy Christmas morning saying, “See!  There is a Santa Claus!”

We had the opportunity to pick through the last of my grandma’s possessions.  That was bittersweet.  I only took items that sparked specific memories for me, and I felt self-conscious asking for certain things.  I took a couple of old lady plates, a vase because Aden liked it, a can opener, her sugar spoon….  The item I’m most glad to have is her favorite glass Christmas tree ornament.  It’s a funny little silver and red and green thing that looks a bit like a cross between a spool of thread and an accordion.  When I used to help her put up her tree when I was in college that was the ornament she was most careful with because she’d had it the longest.  I will be honored to hang it on my own tree this year.  My Uncle Joe also made sure I got her large Christmas plate that she used to serve cookies on when she had company.  He told me she specifically wanted me to have that, and just typing that sentence is making me tear up again.

I felt like I had taken too many things while I was in Ohio, but when we got home and unpacked the grandma box I realized I really hadn’t.  There’s just something so unseemly about taking things that aren’t yours, even if the owner is gone and would like you to have them.  The nice thing, though, was that since people were only interested in keeping a bit of grandma and not in actual things, there was no squabbling over any of it.  My cousin the lawyer laughed as all seven grandchildren looked at the knick-knacks spread before us, and said that these were the kinds of items that keep people in the court system for years.  I’m glad that’s not us.  And a big part of the reason that’s not us is because of who grandma was.

How do people survive losing too much at one time?  Or at the wrong time?  On my father’s side of the family we lost relatives in the Holocaust, and when I read stories of people who literally lost everyone in their family it takes my breath away.  I can’t imagine suddenly being that disconnected in the world.  That’s a pain I can’t fathom.  My grandmother was 92.  I will miss her until the day I die myself, but her life was full and wonderful.  She had her struggles, but she would have been the first to tell you she had a great life.

My grandmother’s ashes were encased in a small stone box and lowered into the ground alongside my grandfather.  It was so strange to be at the grave site a quarter of a century after the first time we all gathered there.  A nearly identical collection of relatives as for my grandfather’s funeral, but this time the grandchildren were all grown and standing with our own children.  To know that without the loving existence of the two people buried at my feet that my children would not be here was sobering.  I owe my grandparents everything.  To see their legacy standing in the cold in the form of parents and scientists and artists and kind souls was moving.  Their lives mattered and continue to matter.

There were a few simple readings, and then each of us was offered rose petals to drop into the hole as we walked past the grave.  The only person who declined was Mona.  I’m not sure why she didn’t want any rose petals, but I credit Mona with a brief bit of comic relief at a time it was needed.  In packing for the trip to Ohio I neglected to check that the kids brought their coats.  That seemed like such a no-brainer during a blizzard it never occurred to me that Mona would leave her coat on the hook in the house, but she did, and at the cemetery Ian and I dressed her in as many layers of our own sweaters and sweatshirts as we could find.  So she stood looking lumpy in a huge, red, hooded sweatshirt, staring into the hole for an inordinate amount of time, until I was finally able to usher her along.  There was something so strange and sweet about watching my little girl stand there in her sparkly shoes, the day after she turned seven looking so old and so small at the same time.  The sight would have made my grandma smile.  I’m sad every day that my grandfather never got to meet my husband or my kids.

I’ve read lots of opinions by people about whether or not it’s appropriate to take children to funerals.  I think the answer to that varies greatly depending upon the kind of service and the temperament of the child, but in our case I was very glad to have my children along.  During the memorial service itself they mostly played with their cousins in another room, but they understood what the occasion was about (as much as any children can be expected to understand death) and showed the proper respect when it mattered.  Death is hard, but it’s the ultimate contrast for appreciating all we have.  The memorial was not for my grandma.  She’s gone.  It was for us.  And I think for my kids to see a family coming together to acknowledge all we’ve been given and to celebrate life while still mourning our loss was important and powerful.

It was a long couple of days, but there was music and singing, good food, some wonderful stories, and overall I’d say more laughter than tears.  Just the kind of gathering both my grandparents would have loved.  I can’t believe my grandma had to live such a long portion of her life without her husband at her side.  May they both rest in peace together.  They are missed.