Papaw's gift...

Once, long ago in another life, I was a feature's writer. For today, in honor of those that came before us, I reworked a piece I had written for another Memorial Day.

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Rain.

Of course it was raining. And it wasn’t the refreshing rain either--the kind you want to go out and do pirouettes in. It was a hot, muggy, miserable August rain in North Carolina. By this time it had reduced itself to a lighter, but no less miserable, drizzle.

Standing at parade rest flanked by my sister and six of my cousins, white carnations wilting in the heat pinned above our hearts designated us as pallbearers. The lineup of three males and five females had caused no small amount of panic on the part of the funeral director.

Girls? As pallbearers? He had never heard of such a thing.

Neither had any of the family.

Just a few days before I had stood in a small flower shop in Askewville, NC as moral support for my mom. I had meant to just drive her down, drop her off and come back in a few days for the funeral. Witnessing her shaking hand on the door handle instantly changed my plans.

As the second oldest of eight my mom’s siblings often looked to her for support and guidance. That day she needed her own support system.

The arguments began as we crossed the flower shop threshold. Is there a large southern family that does not argue? There is undying, unconditional love running deep through the core of these arguments, but they can get heated none-the-less.

For a man who passed away quietly and without fuss in his sleep, Papaw left a lot of turmoil behind him.

Named after their father, my mom had been the favorite. She knew her father in a way that none of the rest did and she was determined that the service and funeral would reflect the daddy she knew--not the one her sisters felt they knew. He wouldn’t have wanted flowers. He would have wanted donations to mission ventures instead. Her sisters, if left unchecked, would have him draped in blue carnations and a cheap Styrofoam Bible.

Longing for an escape I forwent the cool interior of the shop, opting instead for the bench outside in the hot, muggy August heat.

“You have got to be Murriell Gray’s daughter!”

Welcome to Small Town, USA. How did the Flower Lady know who I was?

“Yes, ma’am.” Smile pasted to my face. “They’re all inside waiting for you. You might want some protection.”

After a while I wandered back in to check on the sisters’ progress and walked in on the discussion of pallbearers.

One aunt was suggesting calling pastors that Papaw had mentored. Only problem was it was the weekend and most pastors work weekends. Aunt Cora, the eldest, suggested having the grandsons serve as pallbearers. The dilemma being there were so few male grandchildren.

“But...” was all I could get out.

My mom, instinctively knowing what was in my head, picked up my sentence.

“Why does it have to just be grandsons?” Mama asked. “Is that what you were trying to say?”

Five sets of blank eyes met my own.

“I’ve never heard of anyone using females for pallbearers before.” Aunt Cora finally remarked. “I don’t see why it can’t be done.”

“Of all of the grandchildren, you should be up there--you’re right.”

If my mom had been the favorite child, I was the favorite grandchild--but not in a spoiled kind of way. The truth is, I hardly ever saw the man. Growing up on a separate continent from my cousins, I missed out on the grandfather/grandchild relationship. But so did the majority of my stateside cousins.

All of his children and their children were terrified of Murl Jarvis--he was a stereotypical southern minister/patriarch: stern and iron fisted--with the exception of my mom. Papaw had missed the first two years of his eldest child's life. He returned from a war joyful to be have survived when so many had not. Determined to not miss out on any part of his newborn daughter's life he gave her his name and his full attention. Because of that my mom enjoyed a very special relationship with her father. She saw the tenderness beneath the prickly exterior, the dry humor and wit that her siblings failed to recognize. It was only natural that the relationship the two shared should trickle down to her children.

The summer I enlisted in the Navy I traveled down to Windsor to spend some time with Papaw. The look of pride in his eyes when I informed him of my enlistment was enough to carry me through even the toughest moments of my military career. During that visit he pulled out worn photo album after worn photo album, leather bindings coming apart along the spine. Fading black and white scalloped edged photographs held onto black paper with little corner stickers. I heard story after story of his own days in the Navy as a torpedo man in World War II. He left a pregnant wife to go fight for his country.

The visit was a long weekend filled with reminiscence and grandfatherly advice. One of my fondest memories. If grandchildren were going to be asked to be pallbearers for this man’s funeral then I was not going to be cheated of the opportunity to pay Papaw that last bit of respect.

“Pastor Denton isn’t going to like it.”

“Well, he’ll just have to realize that that’s the way it’s going to be.” Southern backbone showing through. Family is more important than church hierarchy.

Rain.

If I shut my eyes I can pretend the gun salutes are claps of thunder.

With no good place to look, standing there just on the edge of the makeshift shelter, my eyes wander.

My husband. Sitting there in front. My mom’s hand clutched in his--wrapped around the arm as if it’s her only lifeline.

My eyes move on. Up and over--taking in the flag-draped coffin that holds the body that up until four days before had been my grandfather. As my eyes move down I ponder the use of fake grass while my minds tunes out the words of the pastor. Why, here in probably the best kept grounds in the county, do they insist on laying out Astroturf? A gap in the blanket offers a glimpse of the deep dark beyond. I realize that the coffin is reality enough for now. We do not need to see the gaping hole underneath to know where it’s going.

The VFW, Papaw’s comrades-in-arms, lower their guns. Old men standing out in the rain in faded uniforms. Do they look at each other and wonder which one of them will be next?

Following the gun salute I hear the opening bars of “Taps.”

Day is done, gone the sun...

Instinctively my right hand pops up in salute.

Michael’s hand goes up beside me. He’s active duty 82nd Airborne.

Sean stands up. Saluting.

Two of my uncles stand and salute. Former National Guard and Army.

Tears join the rain on my face. My left hand clenched at my side. Mourning not just Papaw, but everything that song represents.

The Navy funeral representatives approach the coffin and lift off the flag.

Both sailors are practiced and skilled, but somehow this doesn’t appear to be rote behavior to them. Every time they are called upon to remove, fold and present a flag has to wrench their hearts.

“Taps” fades out.

One of the sailors, with his right hand on top of the flag--now a perfect triangle--and his left hand underneath, steps in front of my mom, executes a perfect 90 degree turn on the fake grass, kneels and presents the flag to her.

I don’t witness the exchange. Too much there to see.

Maybe one day it will be my dad, or myself, laying there in the coffin. And my mom will be presented with yet another flag. Or maybe one day it’ll be Sean and I’ll get my own flag. Far too many pictures going through my head for me to be able to open my eyes and take in the scene at hand.

Movement to the side is the funeral director making his way down our line. Unpinning our carnations and placing them in our hands.

One by one we file out. Laying our wilted flowers on the coffin as we walk by. Just the briefest of pauses as my hand contacts cool wood--a breath for a final farewell.

Sailor. Sharecropper. Circuit riding preacher. Husband. Father. Grandfather. Great grandfather and even great-great grandfather. Above all, a man who loomed larger than life in my childhood memories.

Even in death Papaw gave me a great gift. That day in the flower shop was a defining moment. If my life were spread out in a timeline it would get a huge dot. Or maybe an outlined circle, filled in with color.

Up until that day anytime I had spoken my mind--and it was usually against common opinion--my comments were met with eye rolls and sighs of “That’s just Dori”. That moment in the flower shop they listened to what I had to say. I don’t know if it was a rite of passage, but I’ll accept it as a final gift.

See ya, Papaw.

Full speed ahead.