What comes next?

Fog hung thick this morning. By now, mid-afternoon, the sun has come out and skies are clearing. There’s not a drop of fog in sight. Fortunately, we don’t have to choose, because each condition is appealing in a number of different ways. With the fog, more so if one isn’t on open water without a compass or fog horn.

late summer fog

Photo by J. Harrington

Coming back from The Cities, we saw a great blue heron flying through the Sunrise River marshes in Carlos Avery Wildlife Management Area. It’s hard to believe a creature that looks like it should be awkward and unwieldy is actually graceful in the air and on its stilt-like legs.

The heron appeared as the Daughter Person, Better Half and I were returning from the interment ceremony  of a family friend who walked on back in June. He was a member of a Lutheran church in Minneapolis. As I recall from my childhood, Catholics didn’t used to combine funeral services with regular Sunday mass. I don’t know how regular it is for Lutherans to do so, but that’s what we were at.

The Daughter Person drove. I rode in the back seat. The church is located in an area that I had some economic development responsibilities for years ago when I worked for The City. Uncharacteristically, I managed to keep my mouth shut and treat the Daughter Person like the highly capable adult she’s become. I kept my mouth shut as she got us to the church following directions she had downloaded. I would have gone a different way, but I wasn’t driving. This getting older and being a considerate adult is sure a slippery slope once you start down it. I wonder if I need to sign up for skiing lessons for Seniors.

Funerals

By James Laughlin

.

in our village are short and to the point.   

While the mourners are finding their seats   

Etta Andrews plays “Now the Day Is Over.”

No one is ashamed to wipe his or her eyes.   

Then the Reverend stands up and reads   

the Lord’s Prayer with the mourners   

speaking it with him. Then there is a hymn,   

usually “Rock of Ages” or one chosen by   

the wife of the deceased. The deceased,   

I might say, is never present, except for   

an urn prepared by Mr. Torrant, who is   

always squinting. Next there are remarks   

by the Reverend. He is a kind man and   

can be relied upon to say something nice   

about the life of the departed, no matter

how much he may have been scorned or even   

disliked.

The Reverend’s eulogies are so much the   

same, with appropriate readings from scripture,   

that I gave up listening to them years ago.   

Instead, unheard, I eulogize myself,   

the real picture of how I’ve been in   

the village. I admit that I was self-satisfied   

and arrogant. I didn’t go to much pains   

to provide diversions for my wife. When   

the children and grandchildren came for visits   

I lectured them and pointed out their faults.   

I made appropriate contributions to the   

local charities but without much enthusiasm.   

I snubbed people who bored me and avoided   

parties. I was considerate to the people   

who worked in the post office. I complained

a great deal about my ailments. When I’m   

asked how I’m doing, I reply that I’m   

not getting any younger. This inveterate   

response has become a bore in the village.

After the Reverend’s eulogy is over

there is another hymn, and the benediction.   

As they leave everyone, except me, presses   

the flesh of the bereaved with appropriate   

utterances. But I get away as quickly as   

I can. If they don’t bore me I like   

almost all the people in the village.   

But as they go, I tick them off. I’ve   

been to at least fifty funerals. When   

will mine be?

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