The Man in the Suitcase
Woody, my grandmother's husband of 20 years, died in a nursing home in Corpus Christi, Texas, on March 19. He was 90. I took my 2 1/2 year old daughter Arden with me to the viewing, funeral, and graveside service, a. because I wanted pre-schooler company at a somber event, and b. because some of the family had not seen her in many months.
At the viewing, Mimi (my mom) picked up Arden and carried her to look at the flowers and pictures of Woody by his casket. Yes, Mom still carries Arden around as if she can't walk. She came back rather quickly to where I was sitting with my brother. I thought she was sobbing, but she was laughing so much her eyes were watering. "Arden asked me if I wanted to go see the man in the suitcase." We burst into hysterics. Woody would have found this very funny. Out of the mouths of babes. That was the quote of the trip.
Arden was fine at the funeral. A coloring book and the singing of hymns entertained her most of the time. The funeral was short, pleasant, and informal. The graveside service was another story.
They buried Woody in Thompsonville Cemetery, which is fitting because his last name is Thompson. He's buried by his second wife. Nanny, my grandmother, will be buried by my grandfather in a cemetery nearby. The finality of a graveside service depresses me. They played "Taps" as they folded the U.S. flag that was draped over Woody's coffin. He served in WWII. Arden loudly belched during the music, which was the first indication that we should walk away. During the prayer, she asked, "Momma, what's in there?" pointing to his coffin. At that point, Mom scooped her up and walked around the cemetery pointing at graves and whispering to her. Arden and I spent the last 10 minutes of the service waiting in the car. Fine with me. Like I said, staring at a hole in the ground where someone you've known for so long will be until their body deteriorates is not what I call fun.
And by the way, I do not want to be "viewed" before my funeral. Put me in the suitcase and shut it. Better yet, leave my ashes in the urn. I haven't decided where I would want them to be sprinkled. . .
At the viewing, Mimi (my mom) picked up Arden and carried her to look at the flowers and pictures of Woody by his casket. Yes, Mom still carries Arden around as if she can't walk. She came back rather quickly to where I was sitting with my brother. I thought she was sobbing, but she was laughing so much her eyes were watering. "Arden asked me if I wanted to go see the man in the suitcase." We burst into hysterics. Woody would have found this very funny. Out of the mouths of babes. That was the quote of the trip.
Arden was fine at the funeral. A coloring book and the singing of hymns entertained her most of the time. The funeral was short, pleasant, and informal. The graveside service was another story.
They buried Woody in Thompsonville Cemetery, which is fitting because his last name is Thompson. He's buried by his second wife. Nanny, my grandmother, will be buried by my grandfather in a cemetery nearby. The finality of a graveside service depresses me. They played "Taps" as they folded the U.S. flag that was draped over Woody's coffin. He served in WWII. Arden loudly belched during the music, which was the first indication that we should walk away. During the prayer, she asked, "Momma, what's in there?" pointing to his coffin. At that point, Mom scooped her up and walked around the cemetery pointing at graves and whispering to her. Arden and I spent the last 10 minutes of the service waiting in the car. Fine with me. Like I said, staring at a hole in the ground where someone you've known for so long will be until their body deteriorates is not what I call fun.
And by the way, I do not want to be "viewed" before my funeral. Put me in the suitcase and shut it. Better yet, leave my ashes in the urn. I haven't decided where I would want them to be sprinkled. . .
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