Arlington
We arrive at the house at 10:30 or so.
Grandma Jo is already asleep. Dad is the only person awake, and he greets us at the door. We come in, set our stuff down in the foyer, and sit in the living room.
This house is amazing. You walk in the door and there's thick rugs under your feet, so close together it's like patchwork carpet. To your right is the dining room. The walls are covered with paintings, the most prominent a large portrait of Grampa, painted by Grandma Jo. Normally the table stretches the length of the room with large numbers of chairs around it. Now, the table is in different sections, sitting against the wall. Preperation for the next day.
To the right of the door is a room with white couches and a gleaming crystal chandiler. Several cabniets are in there, full of nearly priceless antiques. Moving through that, you enter the living room to your right or the kitchen to your left.
The kitchen is truly amazing. It is about the same size as the huge dining room, with a kitchen island with a stovetop and oven in the middle. Copper and iron pots hang from the ceiling, looking like decoaration, but they're not. I remember when I was little, I was shocked when Grandma Jo just reached up and pulled a pot down. On the back wall is a spice cabinet, larger than my dorm, it seems.
We move into the living room. Sit. Talk for a little while. Chris mentions that he'd like to go to the basement, so was take a deep breath and enter the subterrain.
The stairs are steep and narrow. Right at the bottom is Grandma Jo's office. Through a maze of papers and boxes we follow the narrow trail of the basement into the wine cellar. Apparently, this wine cellar is amazing. It too is larger than my dorm, full of wines from the 40's and 50's on through today. I know nothing about wines, so I'm not terribly intrigued by this. It was amazing, in a way.
On through the maze. All along the walls of the maze are shelves of antiques. Not the really good stuff though--you know, only worth a few hundred dollars a piece. I look down and see a case of rings a slant on top of a box of many other things. I look at some of the pricetags--450, 325. Next to this is another side room
This is the gem-grinding room. There are polished and unpolished stones, half-finished gems that lay next to the grinder. What are the stones? I don't know enough to tell.
Next room. Painting room. Frames upon frames. Half-finished canvases. This is where Grandma Jo used to work. The entire room is full, litterally, no floor space, full of frames.
We go back upstairs and head for bed.
Second floor. Mostly papers, files, unused excersise equipment. Also a guest room, the master bedroom, and Dad's old room, the "red room." We go to bed.
Today.
For the purposes of time, we'll skip the morning. It is a beautiful day, thankfully. We mill around for a few moments outside, and I greet the various family and Clan of Aunt Tawnya who I haven't yet. The limo pulls up. The family climbs in.
I feel somewhat weird about this. I am family, yes, but I feel that there are so many people here who were closer to him than I. I don't make waves, and slid to a corner of the limo.
There are ten of us in there--Dad, myself, my Aunt Joanne and Uncle Don, (who I just met today,) Sam, Ian, Chris, Aunt Tawnya, Uncle Jeff, and Grandma Jo. Everyone is fighting to keep the conversations light. I don't talk, I just stare out the window.
Every so often, Grandma Jo starts to cry. She breaths deep and fights it, pulls herself back together, and keeps it together for a few moments. She is remarkable.
We pull off the highway. I look outside and gaze at the Lincoln Memorial through the very smeared, tinted window. We pull away from it and into the cemetary.
I have been to this cemetary as a tourist. It is drastically different now. It is no longer the National Cemetary, with Kennedy's fire and the Tomb of the Unknown Solider and all that. It is where were are bringing the ashes of my grandfather for their final rest. We pass the toursits, pass the acres and acres of tombstones in perfect lines, and reach the office. The limo empties.
We are led into the building. Everything is white marble. We are led through the white marble entrance hall down the white marble stairs, into a small dimly lit room to wait for the ceremony to begin. On a side wall, a screen plays a live feed of the Tomb of the Unknown Solider. It is the changing of the guard.
We wait for the full hour. Grandma Jo speaks to everyone, hugs everyone. She often starts crying and recovering, same as in the limo. Sarah brings a something wrapped in plastic to Aunt Tawnya. "It's his mason apron," she says. "I thought we might need to have it."
This doesn't click with me. I think to myself, "I know Grandpa did pretty much everything, but I don't think he ever worked with stone." Finally, something clicked into my brain. Mason. As in the Free Masons. My Grandpa was a Free Mason! I had no idea. (I suppose that's part of the idea behind a secret society.)
The cemetary representative comes down. "If you will all please file into your cars quickly to reach the service. The family will ride in the limosiene, you can follow it to your next destination. Make sure you follow the correct limo; three other funerals are going on this afternoon."
We climb in the limo once more. A drove of cars follows us. Grandma Jo laughs a little. "He would have loved this," she says. "Oh, God he would have loved this."
We reach the site of the service. As we get out of the limo, we stand and wait for the gaurd to do their thing. They are pulling the ashes, in their English tea box, out of the car. It's a sign of respect, I know that much. There were many people in uniform, fullfilling their purpose as a military funeral.
We go into a stone shelter, just columns and a roof. The tea box is placed on the pedastal in the center. There are ten chairs, covered in some kind of green velvet, for the family to sit in. Everyone else stands near enough to hear the chaplain.
Six men stand around the ashes. They unfold a flag, crisply, deliberatly. It is held over Grandpa while the chaplain speaks. He gives a cookie-cutter sermon, probably the same he gives at every other funeral, but I don't fault him for it.
In the distance, I hear guns going off in salute. Taps is played, softly, behind the chaplain's prayer. Then the gun salute for Grandpa. Three shots, seven guns. The bugler plays. The bugler from the distance is not yet done, and for a few seconds the sounds overlap, the near and the far.
They fold the flag into the triangle. As they fold, a funeral elswhere in the cemetary has a band playing "God of Our Fathers." They point the triangle, and the chaplain hands it to Grandma Jo.
"We give this to you in thanks of your husband's service to our country. We hope this service expresses our gratitude." Or words to that effect.
"You boys did a very good job," Grandma Jo says with a laugh and a cry.
The bagpiper played a song I don't recognize, and a bunch of men wearing aprons step up. I'm sorry, I mean, I know the Masons are a big deal and all, but they sure do look funny in their aprons.
The Mason ceremony was interesting. I'm sure I'll never get the opportunity to go to another one. The head Mason, I suppose as he is, spoke about eternity, and gave a couple symbols of innocence. That made me laugh. I can think of several words to descibe Grandpa, and "Innocent" is not one of them. I bet it made him laugh, too.
After the mason service, we were to go to the "wall," I suppose. Since there were so many in attendance, only family went to that. Dad carried the tea box. We each had roses.
We walked through several already filled spots. Each had a different symbol carved on the white marble. A cross, cross and flame, star of david. Some had nothing. Were those atheists? Or those too poor for the extra engraving?
We reach the spot. A green curtain is pulled back, revealing the hole Dad pushes the tea box into. Each of the kids puts something in there. Then each of us lays a rose in that cubby. When we all have, that's it. That's the end of it. We walk back to the limo. I am fighting not to cry, have been since we stepped out of the limo. The piper plays "Amazing Grace" as we walk back to the rest of the party.
While we are at the grave, it strikes me how very similar Grandma Jo and I really are. She says, "Nope. We are not doing this again." She keeps cracking little jokes, even when she is about to cry. She tries to keep everyone entertained. It is remarkable to see.
The reception is back at the house. It is actually fun. I get to hang out with the people I don't see very often but still care very much about. I get to talk to some people who knew Grandpa quite well, (including some very high-ups in the military, some who I've met before.) People reminece.
I think about Grandpa and Grandma Jo. They were absolutly perfect for each other. She called him "Thrasher" "Your Grace," or "Your Majesty," dripping with sarcasm, while she remained "The Red Witch." They loved food, parties, travel. They were halarious to watch, and you know they loved each other.
Chris and I left fairly early. The ride back was mostly good. We did laugh at how mad Grandpa would have been about the fact that the wine at the reception was terrible. Now I'm back in that other world, the world without dinner parties and Colonels and Honor Gaurds. It is a little bizzare, to make such an abrupt transition.
During the chaplain's sermon, something hit me very forcibly. There are nine of us--Dad, Chris, me, Aunt Tawnya, Blake, Kimberly, Uncle Jeff, Sam, and Ian. We are all very different--different religions, beliefs, values, senses of humor. We have some things in common, of course, but you'd be hard pressed to find a common thread between all of us. One of those few things rested in the ashes in front of us.
That's enough.
Grandma Jo is already asleep. Dad is the only person awake, and he greets us at the door. We come in, set our stuff down in the foyer, and sit in the living room.
This house is amazing. You walk in the door and there's thick rugs under your feet, so close together it's like patchwork carpet. To your right is the dining room. The walls are covered with paintings, the most prominent a large portrait of Grampa, painted by Grandma Jo. Normally the table stretches the length of the room with large numbers of chairs around it. Now, the table is in different sections, sitting against the wall. Preperation for the next day.
To the right of the door is a room with white couches and a gleaming crystal chandiler. Several cabniets are in there, full of nearly priceless antiques. Moving through that, you enter the living room to your right or the kitchen to your left.
The kitchen is truly amazing. It is about the same size as the huge dining room, with a kitchen island with a stovetop and oven in the middle. Copper and iron pots hang from the ceiling, looking like decoaration, but they're not. I remember when I was little, I was shocked when Grandma Jo just reached up and pulled a pot down. On the back wall is a spice cabinet, larger than my dorm, it seems.
We move into the living room. Sit. Talk for a little while. Chris mentions that he'd like to go to the basement, so was take a deep breath and enter the subterrain.
The stairs are steep and narrow. Right at the bottom is Grandma Jo's office. Through a maze of papers and boxes we follow the narrow trail of the basement into the wine cellar. Apparently, this wine cellar is amazing. It too is larger than my dorm, full of wines from the 40's and 50's on through today. I know nothing about wines, so I'm not terribly intrigued by this. It was amazing, in a way.
On through the maze. All along the walls of the maze are shelves of antiques. Not the really good stuff though--you know, only worth a few hundred dollars a piece. I look down and see a case of rings a slant on top of a box of many other things. I look at some of the pricetags--450, 325. Next to this is another side room
This is the gem-grinding room. There are polished and unpolished stones, half-finished gems that lay next to the grinder. What are the stones? I don't know enough to tell.
Next room. Painting room. Frames upon frames. Half-finished canvases. This is where Grandma Jo used to work. The entire room is full, litterally, no floor space, full of frames.
We go back upstairs and head for bed.
Second floor. Mostly papers, files, unused excersise equipment. Also a guest room, the master bedroom, and Dad's old room, the "red room." We go to bed.
Today.
For the purposes of time, we'll skip the morning. It is a beautiful day, thankfully. We mill around for a few moments outside, and I greet the various family and Clan of Aunt Tawnya who I haven't yet. The limo pulls up. The family climbs in.
I feel somewhat weird about this. I am family, yes, but I feel that there are so many people here who were closer to him than I. I don't make waves, and slid to a corner of the limo.
There are ten of us in there--Dad, myself, my Aunt Joanne and Uncle Don, (who I just met today,) Sam, Ian, Chris, Aunt Tawnya, Uncle Jeff, and Grandma Jo. Everyone is fighting to keep the conversations light. I don't talk, I just stare out the window.
Every so often, Grandma Jo starts to cry. She breaths deep and fights it, pulls herself back together, and keeps it together for a few moments. She is remarkable.
We pull off the highway. I look outside and gaze at the Lincoln Memorial through the very smeared, tinted window. We pull away from it and into the cemetary.
I have been to this cemetary as a tourist. It is drastically different now. It is no longer the National Cemetary, with Kennedy's fire and the Tomb of the Unknown Solider and all that. It is where were are bringing the ashes of my grandfather for their final rest. We pass the toursits, pass the acres and acres of tombstones in perfect lines, and reach the office. The limo empties.
We are led into the building. Everything is white marble. We are led through the white marble entrance hall down the white marble stairs, into a small dimly lit room to wait for the ceremony to begin. On a side wall, a screen plays a live feed of the Tomb of the Unknown Solider. It is the changing of the guard.
We wait for the full hour. Grandma Jo speaks to everyone, hugs everyone. She often starts crying and recovering, same as in the limo. Sarah brings a something wrapped in plastic to Aunt Tawnya. "It's his mason apron," she says. "I thought we might need to have it."
This doesn't click with me. I think to myself, "I know Grandpa did pretty much everything, but I don't think he ever worked with stone." Finally, something clicked into my brain. Mason. As in the Free Masons. My Grandpa was a Free Mason! I had no idea. (I suppose that's part of the idea behind a secret society.)
The cemetary representative comes down. "If you will all please file into your cars quickly to reach the service. The family will ride in the limosiene, you can follow it to your next destination. Make sure you follow the correct limo; three other funerals are going on this afternoon."
We climb in the limo once more. A drove of cars follows us. Grandma Jo laughs a little. "He would have loved this," she says. "Oh, God he would have loved this."
We reach the site of the service. As we get out of the limo, we stand and wait for the gaurd to do their thing. They are pulling the ashes, in their English tea box, out of the car. It's a sign of respect, I know that much. There were many people in uniform, fullfilling their purpose as a military funeral.
We go into a stone shelter, just columns and a roof. The tea box is placed on the pedastal in the center. There are ten chairs, covered in some kind of green velvet, for the family to sit in. Everyone else stands near enough to hear the chaplain.
Six men stand around the ashes. They unfold a flag, crisply, deliberatly. It is held over Grandpa while the chaplain speaks. He gives a cookie-cutter sermon, probably the same he gives at every other funeral, but I don't fault him for it.
In the distance, I hear guns going off in salute. Taps is played, softly, behind the chaplain's prayer. Then the gun salute for Grandpa. Three shots, seven guns. The bugler plays. The bugler from the distance is not yet done, and for a few seconds the sounds overlap, the near and the far.
They fold the flag into the triangle. As they fold, a funeral elswhere in the cemetary has a band playing "God of Our Fathers." They point the triangle, and the chaplain hands it to Grandma Jo.
"We give this to you in thanks of your husband's service to our country. We hope this service expresses our gratitude." Or words to that effect.
"You boys did a very good job," Grandma Jo says with a laugh and a cry.
The bagpiper played a song I don't recognize, and a bunch of men wearing aprons step up. I'm sorry, I mean, I know the Masons are a big deal and all, but they sure do look funny in their aprons.
The Mason ceremony was interesting. I'm sure I'll never get the opportunity to go to another one. The head Mason, I suppose as he is, spoke about eternity, and gave a couple symbols of innocence. That made me laugh. I can think of several words to descibe Grandpa, and "Innocent" is not one of them. I bet it made him laugh, too.
After the mason service, we were to go to the "wall," I suppose. Since there were so many in attendance, only family went to that. Dad carried the tea box. We each had roses.
We walked through several already filled spots. Each had a different symbol carved on the white marble. A cross, cross and flame, star of david. Some had nothing. Were those atheists? Or those too poor for the extra engraving?
We reach the spot. A green curtain is pulled back, revealing the hole Dad pushes the tea box into. Each of the kids puts something in there. Then each of us lays a rose in that cubby. When we all have, that's it. That's the end of it. We walk back to the limo. I am fighting not to cry, have been since we stepped out of the limo. The piper plays "Amazing Grace" as we walk back to the rest of the party.
While we are at the grave, it strikes me how very similar Grandma Jo and I really are. She says, "Nope. We are not doing this again." She keeps cracking little jokes, even when she is about to cry. She tries to keep everyone entertained. It is remarkable to see.
The reception is back at the house. It is actually fun. I get to hang out with the people I don't see very often but still care very much about. I get to talk to some people who knew Grandpa quite well, (including some very high-ups in the military, some who I've met before.) People reminece.
I think about Grandpa and Grandma Jo. They were absolutly perfect for each other. She called him "Thrasher" "Your Grace," or "Your Majesty," dripping with sarcasm, while she remained "The Red Witch." They loved food, parties, travel. They were halarious to watch, and you know they loved each other.
Chris and I left fairly early. The ride back was mostly good. We did laugh at how mad Grandpa would have been about the fact that the wine at the reception was terrible. Now I'm back in that other world, the world without dinner parties and Colonels and Honor Gaurds. It is a little bizzare, to make such an abrupt transition.
During the chaplain's sermon, something hit me very forcibly. There are nine of us--Dad, Chris, me, Aunt Tawnya, Blake, Kimberly, Uncle Jeff, Sam, and Ian. We are all very different--different religions, beliefs, values, senses of humor. We have some things in common, of course, but you'd be hard pressed to find a common thread between all of us. One of those few things rested in the ashes in front of us.
That's enough.