Another Day.
Things were rough the next few days; the oncoming storm system effectivly trapped the Mrs. and myself in Sheboygan, whereas I much rather would have fled the four hours home to hide amidst my books, my comforts, and my memories until such time as the funeral permitted. Not to be.
The matriarch-in-waiting (My mother), her sister, and my uncle her brother went off to make the arrangements at Lippert Funeral home, which has seen to the final journey of scores, nay, great hearty branches of my family tree. They returned after only a short wait -- it appears that grandmother, in her infinite wisdom, had made the arrangements years before. I spent time combing over old albums, pulling out photos that illustrated her life so well. Mostly Disneyworld.. She had lived half of every year there, it seems. Carol and I also made an unfortunately expensive shopping spree -- despite having a few days' worth of clothes, neither of us had packed for the worst. I settled on a somber, British-cut suit of black with a crimson tie, the wife chose an elegant ensemble in silver and charcoal. We walked the hallways of the dowager Memorial Mall, a tiny bygone relic of the late 1960's indoor mall movement. When I was a mere lad of five or six, this place was a treasure-filled cavern to me; my jaded eyes now saw it as merely a small, dusty, S-shaped mall with more vacancies than retail space. Times change, the world moves on.
We took a quiet afternoon away from the family and walked the streets of my old city, talking of everything and nothing. The world has moved on in many places, but here the world seems to be moving in...everywhere old buildings and factories were being bulldozed for more condominiums. This was a strange place to me now. Five years away and no landmark remains untouched. I finally gave up on trying to find comfort in my newly alien surroundings and returned to the nursing home to deliver a suit to grandfather. The nurses promised to check it over and press it as necessary, I thanked them for their trouble. Evening found me in front of a fireplace, staring at the snow outside.
Thursday dawned with another six inches of new snow outside the door, and the promise of freezing rain. As the viewing at the funeral home was not until Four, I spent a morning shoveling, then helping family pack up Grandmothers things in the apartment she held until January. The apartment held little pain for me; it was an unfamiliar place, recently aquired and occupied after the sale of their house some time before. This was not the place where I spent my summers; there was no basement lumber pile to build mighty forts in, no great bench of tools to marvel over. No coconuts from a Hawaii trip littered corners like tiny mummified orangutan heads. No patio, no well-tended yard, no friendly neighborhood victims of innumerable ding-dong-ditch sessions living nearby. This place held some prized possesions, but few memories for me. This was grandma-lite. I could handle that. I packed up fridge magnets from a thousand different places, shells gathered from the coasts of Florida, Mickey Mouse in a thousand different incarnations and configurations. Glass cabinets with shelf after shelf of Hummel figurines. Endless parades of elephant statues, made of everything from plastic to jade. This was also a place of firsts -- many of these things were items I had been cautioned to never touch since childhood, I unconsciously respected that warning even thirty-some years later. Now I had to touch, to handle, these things. I found myself wishing that I did not have to.
Grandmother's room held photos and mementos -- my wedding photos were on top of a great pile of pictographs and news clippings that drifted over a great glass-topped round table, placed there by a woman that knew here memory was being stolen from her a single cell at a time. She had wanted to remember; as the family historian, she needed to. Now the job was mine, whether I liked it or not. She also left lists. Lists of things that went to certain members of the family, in lieu of a will. It was very straightforward -- various items of contention were left to certain family members who had coveted them, other items were left to chance.
She had left me the Forbidden Cabinet.
My earliest memories of her was her cabinet of prized Hummels and spun-glass novelties, unusual trinkets, and tiny family heirlooms. From the kitch of Bicentennial glass bells to the hand-carved model of a World War Two fighter plane, these items had attracted my eye behind two panels of tempered glass. My instructions were always firm. Look. Never Touch. Not so much as a fingerprint on the glass. I used to spend hours in front of the cabinet, counting elephants and trying to find the tiny glass mouse hidden in the shelves. Now it was mine, as was its contents. The smallest thing could make me cry this day, it seemed. For me it was sliding open those glass doors to pack away the treasures of her lifetime.
Four o'clock found us all gathered at the funeral home, facing down a freezing rain that threatened to steal what little warmth we had left.
Lippert is an older home, a mix of turn-of-the-century elegance colliding with 1970's kitch. Hologram Jesus was still up on the wall where I had last seen it during Aunt Ethel's funeral, sharing space with a Picasso. At grandmother's request, the traditional funeral hyms were omitted for cheerier Elvis collections.
The morticians had once again worked their magic on the clay of my family. She looked as if she were only sleeping, reposed in a coffin of Champagne metallic with copper accents. the sweet-sour smell of flowers and preservative was in the air; specially filtered lights playing upon here to give the illusion of near-life. I wandered the halls freely, talking with various relatives who I only seem to see at such functions -- though, due to incliment weather, turnout was quite small. Grandfather sat in a chair next to his wife, greeting all comers with the same cheerful air, sharing stories of golden days long past. I could faintly hear the laughter of children as they played and raced in the basement lounge, or played hide-and-seek among the casket displays farter down the hall. It was a surreal air, and over far too soon. I was the last out of the room that night, and stole one last look at the open coffin, seeing only a shadowy form resting among cut flowers.
My head hit the pillow that night in utter exhaustion, with no further thought for the coming morning.
The matriarch-in-waiting (My mother), her sister, and my uncle her brother went off to make the arrangements at Lippert Funeral home, which has seen to the final journey of scores, nay, great hearty branches of my family tree. They returned after only a short wait -- it appears that grandmother, in her infinite wisdom, had made the arrangements years before. I spent time combing over old albums, pulling out photos that illustrated her life so well. Mostly Disneyworld.. She had lived half of every year there, it seems. Carol and I also made an unfortunately expensive shopping spree -- despite having a few days' worth of clothes, neither of us had packed for the worst. I settled on a somber, British-cut suit of black with a crimson tie, the wife chose an elegant ensemble in silver and charcoal. We walked the hallways of the dowager Memorial Mall, a tiny bygone relic of the late 1960's indoor mall movement. When I was a mere lad of five or six, this place was a treasure-filled cavern to me; my jaded eyes now saw it as merely a small, dusty, S-shaped mall with more vacancies than retail space. Times change, the world moves on.
We took a quiet afternoon away from the family and walked the streets of my old city, talking of everything and nothing. The world has moved on in many places, but here the world seems to be moving in...everywhere old buildings and factories were being bulldozed for more condominiums. This was a strange place to me now. Five years away and no landmark remains untouched. I finally gave up on trying to find comfort in my newly alien surroundings and returned to the nursing home to deliver a suit to grandfather. The nurses promised to check it over and press it as necessary, I thanked them for their trouble. Evening found me in front of a fireplace, staring at the snow outside.
Thursday dawned with another six inches of new snow outside the door, and the promise of freezing rain. As the viewing at the funeral home was not until Four, I spent a morning shoveling, then helping family pack up Grandmothers things in the apartment she held until January. The apartment held little pain for me; it was an unfamiliar place, recently aquired and occupied after the sale of their house some time before. This was not the place where I spent my summers; there was no basement lumber pile to build mighty forts in, no great bench of tools to marvel over. No coconuts from a Hawaii trip littered corners like tiny mummified orangutan heads. No patio, no well-tended yard, no friendly neighborhood victims of innumerable ding-dong-ditch sessions living nearby. This place held some prized possesions, but few memories for me. This was grandma-lite. I could handle that. I packed up fridge magnets from a thousand different places, shells gathered from the coasts of Florida, Mickey Mouse in a thousand different incarnations and configurations. Glass cabinets with shelf after shelf of Hummel figurines. Endless parades of elephant statues, made of everything from plastic to jade. This was also a place of firsts -- many of these things were items I had been cautioned to never touch since childhood, I unconsciously respected that warning even thirty-some years later. Now I had to touch, to handle, these things. I found myself wishing that I did not have to.
Grandmother's room held photos and mementos -- my wedding photos were on top of a great pile of pictographs and news clippings that drifted over a great glass-topped round table, placed there by a woman that knew here memory was being stolen from her a single cell at a time. She had wanted to remember; as the family historian, she needed to. Now the job was mine, whether I liked it or not. She also left lists. Lists of things that went to certain members of the family, in lieu of a will. It was very straightforward -- various items of contention were left to certain family members who had coveted them, other items were left to chance.
She had left me the Forbidden Cabinet.
My earliest memories of her was her cabinet of prized Hummels and spun-glass novelties, unusual trinkets, and tiny family heirlooms. From the kitch of Bicentennial glass bells to the hand-carved model of a World War Two fighter plane, these items had attracted my eye behind two panels of tempered glass. My instructions were always firm. Look. Never Touch. Not so much as a fingerprint on the glass. I used to spend hours in front of the cabinet, counting elephants and trying to find the tiny glass mouse hidden in the shelves. Now it was mine, as was its contents. The smallest thing could make me cry this day, it seemed. For me it was sliding open those glass doors to pack away the treasures of her lifetime.
Four o'clock found us all gathered at the funeral home, facing down a freezing rain that threatened to steal what little warmth we had left.
Lippert is an older home, a mix of turn-of-the-century elegance colliding with 1970's kitch. Hologram Jesus was still up on the wall where I had last seen it during Aunt Ethel's funeral, sharing space with a Picasso. At grandmother's request, the traditional funeral hyms were omitted for cheerier Elvis collections.
The morticians had once again worked their magic on the clay of my family. She looked as if she were only sleeping, reposed in a coffin of Champagne metallic with copper accents. the sweet-sour smell of flowers and preservative was in the air; specially filtered lights playing upon here to give the illusion of near-life. I wandered the halls freely, talking with various relatives who I only seem to see at such functions -- though, due to incliment weather, turnout was quite small. Grandfather sat in a chair next to his wife, greeting all comers with the same cheerful air, sharing stories of golden days long past. I could faintly hear the laughter of children as they played and raced in the basement lounge, or played hide-and-seek among the casket displays farter down the hall. It was a surreal air, and over far too soon. I was the last out of the room that night, and stole one last look at the open coffin, seeing only a shadowy form resting among cut flowers.
My head hit the pillow that night in utter exhaustion, with no further thought for the coming morning.