A Final Resting Place

As we drove into the cemetery, my thoughts were not of the scene that I was about to witness, the one that in my early death related experiences had been both frightening and sad, the one that was so hard when I had visualized it many times in my mind as I tried to "test" rational thoughts about death against emotion. My focus was on the workers who guarded the hillside dotted with ground level memorial plaques like facial chicken pox scars and one open wound being the grave that had been dug. Standing motionless at the foot of the hill was the sandy-hair, tall, lanky boy/man in his over-sized gym shorts, dirty tee-shirt and sockless sneakers. Nearer to the dirt mounds that marked the location of the six foot waiting hole were two farm boy grave diggers who looked like twins in their faded blue overalls, beards of the type one sees on hillbillies and orthodox men, sweat stained plaid shirts, and bulging bellies, differentiated only by a single undone shoulder strap on one. I knew that these men could not be permitted to complete the burial task. The honor of doing so would rest with the family and not theses strange strangers.

The procession moved at cemetery speed around the paved loop. After parking and taking a deep emotion calming breath, I walked behind the coffin between the grandchildren who served as loving and respectful guardian escorts to the final physical resting place. Though they stood with solemn faces, Mary would have been as pleased and smiled. As the adult family members, Annie, Marsha, Mark, Robin and I took placed in front of the open grave above which the plain wood coffin was suspended on two taut nylon strips, my loving wife, Debbie, recognizing that there were not enough chairs, stood behind me with her hands resting lightly on my shoulders, conveying both comfort and her own pain.

The power of the coffin with its known contents drew my full visual attention and the meaningless sounds of the mournful Hebrew prayers filled my ears. Then the world became silent and motionless except for the steps of the as he approached the burial mechanism, leaned down and turned the pitted silver lever. As I placed my arms around Mark and Marsha, and the green straps on which the coffin rested began to unwind slowly, but without hesitation, lowering the coffin into the ground. The act was not as hard as I thought it would be for perhaps I was too well prepared.

Once the coffin had reached the bottom and bonded with the ground, and the strange strangers had removed the straps, each of the burial witnesses took a turn at placing dirt into the grave and onto the coffin with the shovel turned upside down to symbolize the reluctance and sadness of the participant. The first clumps of dirt sent forth a thud as they hit the partially hallow wood enclosure. The sounds vanished as the wood disappeared.

Usurping the role of the strange strangers, the sons, grandsons and nephews filled the remainder of the grave, shoveling with strength and energy (the reluctance and sadness remaining inside) until it was level with the unnatural landscape and their shoes were coated with a mud that would dry and remain long after the day was but a memory. While others were finishing the loving task, I knelt and paid respect at my father's grave immediately beside the woman who he had loved, reading the carved words carefully, but not speaking to Dad as I had done on my last visit. Then, as a final act, Marsha, Mark, Annie and I stood before the freshly disbursed earth, turned like a Nebraska field ready to be planted with a new crop, and fulfilled one of Mom's "funeral" wishes. Mark spoke a few words about Mom's love of Israel and her desire that the final earth placed on her grave be the soil of Israel she had purchased for this very purpose so many years ago. Mark opened the bag, sprinkled some of its contents, and then Marsha, I and Annie did the same. Finally, Mark spoke of how this product of Omaha, Nebraska had returned to the home she loved and had longed for the past few years that she lived in a nursing home in St. Paul. And with the mention of home, my mind wandered to earlier times.

To Be Continued