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The Deceased
Dec. 4th, 2013 10:10 pmMy next door neighbor stopped by last night to drop off some cat treats his wife bought and won't use and to let me know that our neighbor Steve across the street had passed away on Thanksgiving night. Steve was an older gent with two teenaged sons. He'd had major health problems over the last few years, but it seemed like they would come and go. This last time, the illness involved brain tumors, but still he was in and out of the hospital until the last time.
Tonight was his visitation and ceremony. While I probably only spoke to Steve a few times over the last 12 years, he was a likeable guy, so I felt I should at least go and pay my respects. I threw on a decent shirt and a tie and drove to the funeral home. It was full of family and friends, which wasn't a surprise as he grew in the Cincinnati area. I signed the guestbook and got in line to meet his widow. I saw his older son in his Naval uniform with his friends and his younger son dressed in a suit with his buddies.
I met up with Steve's wife (sadly her name escaped me). She recognized me and I expressed my condolences. We had probably the most awkward hug felt by both of us. We really are pretty much strangers, our communication usually just a casual wave from across the street. I told her I felt bad for not being a more social person, but she commented that she knew I went to work very early in the morning. So I said my "I'm sorry's" again and left. I probably was there for all of ten minutes.
The 701 Bar was nearby, so I drove over for a beer on Woof Wednesday. The place was not very busy. I got my beer and sat down by myself for a few seconds before I was called over to another table by a young lady and her friend. She was a gregarious young black lady and he was her fun gay escort to the bar. We joked and had a good time discussing things.
She really liked my tie. I told her why I was so dolled up for the night. The ensuing discussion evolved into talk about ghosts and whether we believed they existed. Alcohol was involved, but it was a fun topic. She told me stories of how she feels her long-deceased grandfather still watches over. She can go into her daughter's room why she sleeps and she swears she smells his cologne in the air sometimes in those warm moments.
Her story reminded me of a recent discussion I had with my soon-to-be 18-year-old nephew while I was home for Thanksgiving, which I reiterated to her. When he was four, my mom was living in her mother's house with her sister. My mom often would babysit my nephew and my grandmother (whom we grandkids always referred to as "Mother") adored him. When she passed away unexpectedly in 2000, we were all pretty much devastated. Several days after her funeral, Mom was babysitting my nephew in Mother's home.
"Mamaw, where is Mother?" my nephew asked.
"Honey, Mother isn't here. She's gone to Heaven," my mom responded.
"No she isn't," my nephew replied, "She was in the hallway a second ago."
It's always been a good memory for the family. He had no concept of death really, so the comment threw everyone for a loop. I've had very vivid dreams of Mother since then and I always enjoyed the idea that she checks on me from time to time.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my now nearly-adult nephew and I were going to see the movie "Homefront" at the theater. On the drive there, we were discussing the whole ghost visit story again. I asked my nephew what Mother looked like at that time.
"She looked like she always did," he said. He remarked that she was dressed for bed, wearing what looked like a pink nightgown.
This sent a chill down my spine. My grandmother was buried in a pink-ish nightgown and bedjacket. As my nephew was a very small child at the time, he wasn't taken to Mother's funeral and had no knowledge of her burial outfit. I asked him if he had been told what she was buried in and he said no, not until I had told him in the car just then.
Now I'm home, winding down for the evening. I looked out the window and noticed the Steve's house is dark. His family isn't home yet. I feel bad for them as I'm sure things have not been easy.
Tonight was his visitation and ceremony. While I probably only spoke to Steve a few times over the last 12 years, he was a likeable guy, so I felt I should at least go and pay my respects. I threw on a decent shirt and a tie and drove to the funeral home. It was full of family and friends, which wasn't a surprise as he grew in the Cincinnati area. I signed the guestbook and got in line to meet his widow. I saw his older son in his Naval uniform with his friends and his younger son dressed in a suit with his buddies.
I met up with Steve's wife (sadly her name escaped me). She recognized me and I expressed my condolences. We had probably the most awkward hug felt by both of us. We really are pretty much strangers, our communication usually just a casual wave from across the street. I told her I felt bad for not being a more social person, but she commented that she knew I went to work very early in the morning. So I said my "I'm sorry's" again and left. I probably was there for all of ten minutes.
The 701 Bar was nearby, so I drove over for a beer on Woof Wednesday. The place was not very busy. I got my beer and sat down by myself for a few seconds before I was called over to another table by a young lady and her friend. She was a gregarious young black lady and he was her fun gay escort to the bar. We joked and had a good time discussing things.
She really liked my tie. I told her why I was so dolled up for the night. The ensuing discussion evolved into talk about ghosts and whether we believed they existed. Alcohol was involved, but it was a fun topic. She told me stories of how she feels her long-deceased grandfather still watches over. She can go into her daughter's room why she sleeps and she swears she smells his cologne in the air sometimes in those warm moments.
Her story reminded me of a recent discussion I had with my soon-to-be 18-year-old nephew while I was home for Thanksgiving, which I reiterated to her. When he was four, my mom was living in her mother's house with her sister. My mom often would babysit my nephew and my grandmother (whom we grandkids always referred to as "Mother") adored him. When she passed away unexpectedly in 2000, we were all pretty much devastated. Several days after her funeral, Mom was babysitting my nephew in Mother's home.
"Mamaw, where is Mother?" my nephew asked.
"Honey, Mother isn't here. She's gone to Heaven," my mom responded.
"No she isn't," my nephew replied, "She was in the hallway a second ago."
It's always been a good memory for the family. He had no concept of death really, so the comment threw everyone for a loop. I've had very vivid dreams of Mother since then and I always enjoyed the idea that she checks on me from time to time.
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my now nearly-adult nephew and I were going to see the movie "Homefront" at the theater. On the drive there, we were discussing the whole ghost visit story again. I asked my nephew what Mother looked like at that time.
"She looked like she always did," he said. He remarked that she was dressed for bed, wearing what looked like a pink nightgown.
This sent a chill down my spine. My grandmother was buried in a pink-ish nightgown and bedjacket. As my nephew was a very small child at the time, he wasn't taken to Mother's funeral and had no knowledge of her burial outfit. I asked him if he had been told what she was buried in and he said no, not until I had told him in the car just then.
Now I'm home, winding down for the evening. I looked out the window and noticed the Steve's house is dark. His family isn't home yet. I feel bad for them as I'm sure things have not been easy.
