My father in law passed away yesterday. He served in the military years ago, and considered a burial at the veteran's cemetery; but finally decided to be buried on his own property. He died in early in the morning, but it took awhile for some people to arrive from out of town, so the burial was much later in the day. Things got underway shortly after I arrived. People formed a circle around the casket, which was on the driveway, under the carport. We're in the hills of East Tennessee, but this isn't as redneck as it might sound. He had twelve daughters, they're careful to maintain their looks, and they were dressed sharply for the occasion. The carport was new, the gravel was new, the yard impeccably landscaped; so it was far from low class. In fact, I married one of the daughters because we had religious and political compatibility, even a similar economic strata. In spite of not having wealth, they always conducted themselves with a class that would fit anywhere. They aren't snobby, they're just far removed from white trash. One of my struggles is that I come from the biker part of town, and it can bring tensions to my relationships. The worst thing about being low class is not knowing that you're low class.
Another thing that alienated me was that it felt like everyone knew what they were doing, but me. I've only been to one funeral before. A guy in High School crashed his motorcycle on Folsom Dam. Me and some of the “hoods” rode to the funeral in the back of an old fifties pickup. Nobody said a word. We filed past the open casket and saw his too white face, then left the way we came.
This was different. I read somewhere that jazz started at black funerals, as a happy sound to celebrate the deceased passing to a better world. This was more like that. We read Bible verses and sang glad songs about being received into heaven. It felt like others had read a script that I hadn't. So I went through the motions, trying to do my part. I guess part of the alienation is that I somehow haven't processed the whole death thing. Life's been too busy and demanding till now. It's like there's a philosophical grappling I need to do. It probably is related to my fascination with the term “manifest”. In my world, I can't buy my way out of things. Not that that's a bad thing; I think it was Harvey McKay that said: “If you have a problem that you can buy your way out of, you don't have a problem, you have an expense”. As for me though, I'm the fixer guy. Most of the time, the physical parameters are just there, there's little moving them. So it's always a joy when out of the unseen realm comes a solution. An idea comes to me, or God sends the right person at the right time. Maybe that's it, death is a person being completely free from these physical parameters; manifested the other way. If you've trusted Christ to take your place in judgment, then you'll be with God the creator on the other side.
That's what people were singing about as I became one of the pallbearers. The casket had stout straps attached to the sides. It's surprising how much even an older person can weigh. We lifted and carried about fifty feet, up a slight embankment. The hole was very neatly dug by a neighbor with his heavy equipment. There were a number of tree roots about the size of you finger hanging in the opening, but they didn't interfere with anything. There were two boards laid across the opening; we put the casket on those, then put long straps through the loops we carried it with. We lifted, then had children pull the two boards out, and lowered the casket. I had the shortest strap, and had to lean pretty far over. I pulled mine out first, then stood up, one of the pallbearers was ready to throw in a symbolic shovel of dirt, other people were still singing. I looked at the sky, it was all beginning to feel a little surreal. It was getting dark, the day was fading. Thick clouds darkened the sky, and the mountain across the street formed a grey wall reaching toward those clouds, with all the hardwood trees being void of leaves. The February wind blew, there was a slight mist in it.
I thought about how much I like these hills, because of the woods, the way the Tennessee people adapted to them, and the customs they made. I moved here about twenty years ago; if it weren't for the civilizing influence of my wife, I would live in a hand made log cabin, wearing overalls, drinking Sassafras tea, while letting slightly domesticated raccoons wander into the house. Certainly many people have been buried in these hills, I can think of no better place to be buried.
