I didn’t notice the
little boy at first. I was sitting in the front row of the church, fixated on
my grandpa’s coffin, and the boy was somewhere in the very back. Even when the
service ended and we all filed out, I still didn’t see him because I was embarrassed
that I was sobbing while having to walk past all the firemen from my town, who
were there for the funeral in uniform, honoring my grandpa who had been the
Fire Chief for many years.
We left St. Aloysius
Catholic Church, where my grandpa had also served as an usher until his
multitudes of cancer became too much for him to get out of bed, and his family
and friends got into their cars to head out to the cemetery. My grandpa’s
coffin was loaded into a hearse and my grandma rode along with it, led by a police
car and a restored antique fire engine.
My dad turned the lights
of our car on, which is standard procedure in a funeral procession, but the
chilly and rainy October day might have necessitated it anyway. People stopped
to stare, as they do for any funeral procession, as we drove down Madison
Street toward Highway 12. The cars moved slowly, slow enough that a young boy,
perhaps ten or eleven, could keep up with our progress on his bicycle.
I was old enough by that
time, eighteen and had just started college, that I didn’t feel that this boy
was my peer. I didn’t recognize him and didn’t give him much thought. The old
fire engine would be a draw to any kid, and I didn’t think that his pedaling alongside
our group was anything more than a child interested in a fire truck.
When we got to the
cemetery, we gingerly stepped out onto the fallen leaves and wet ground. The
casket was placed onto the little elevator that would eventually lower it into
the freshly dug hole after everyone left. The family and closest friends of my
grandpa then gathered around the coffin once more while the priest said a few
more words. My grandma and her three daughters, including my mother, linked arms
and stood closest to the coffin. A huge profusion of red carnations was draped
over the casket. After some final words, someone in uniform, standing apart
from the group, was given the signal to give my grandfather a final gun salute
in honor of his service in World War II. I remember the first of the
three-volley salute, the way it blasted through the air with violence, upending
the quiet, reverent moment and causing my grandma to jump in fright. It was
also then that I noticed the small boy, who had followed all the way out to the
cemetery on his bike and was standing off to the side.
When the final words of
prayer were over and my aunt had distributed red carnations to each of grandpa’s
female relatives, the funeral goers moved back to their vehicles. As the young
boy was getting ready to get back on his bike, my grandma approached him.
“Did you know Doc from
the river? Were you one of the kids who would fish with him sometimes?”
“No, ma’am,” the boy
answered, holding his jacket tight around him with his head bowed. “I just came
to pay my respects.”
“Well, thank you,” my
grandma replied. We walked back to the car and she mentioned that she had also
spotted him in the church.
As is tradition, the
funeral and grave-site visit was followed by a potluck in the church basement.
We all headed back into town and gladly trooped out of the rain and into the
cozy basement. A series of tables had been set up along the walls with more
casserole dishes than I had ever seen in my life. The other attendees hung back
to partake in the feast until my grandma had gone through the line first. But
she saw the boy, who was lurking alone in a corner, and encouraged him to get a
plate of food as well.
Once we all had gone
through the line and sat at the tables to eat, the room became loud with the
buzz of everyday conversation. I was sitting kitty corner from my grandma at
the table and watched as one person after another came up to her to tell her
they were sorry. There are not many words
that can be said on this topic, besides I’m sorry and thank you, and every time
it felt awkward and made us all teary. When the priest came up to talk to my
grandma, she asked him, “Do you know who the little boy was?” By this time he
had eaten his fill and disappeared. The priest said he did know him. He
attended funerals of the townspeople on a pretty regular basis. I remember the
priest half apologizing for this, and also conveying the message that the real
reason he came to the funerals was because of the hot meal that was served
afterward.
I took a lot away from
that day. Besides the red carnation that dried long ago and has now been
sitting in my closet for more than twenty years, I received a deeper insight
into the human condition, from those who were at the center of attention that
day and those who were at the periphery. My grandpa had a great life, with a
remarkably kind wife, three beautiful daughters, a successful business, an
active life in the community, and a peaceful refuge found in the surrounding
countryside. But his life didn’t start out so bright. His father died before he
turned five years old, leaving just his mother and baby brother. The little
family struggled to make ends meet, including distilling their own alcohol during
prohibition and bootlegging into neighboring states and running from the
notorious competition. Somehow my grandpa still managed to be salutatorian of
his graduating class and go on to open an ice cream shop with his younger
brother before starting his own electrical company. But it would have been
possible to imagine him, around the age of ten or eleven, attending funerals of
people he didn’t know, all in search of a hot meal.
My grandpa as a little boy
My grandpa ("Doc") and his little brother ("Shimmel")
My grandpa during his Fire Chief years
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