FINALLY HOME. Pts. 1-4

My wife and I ‘took in’ a movie this afternoon. The title, “Same Kind of Different as Me.” It was, I think, a better than average flick. Not on the order of “Gone With the Wind” or “The Ten Commandments” to be sure, but a very good movie.

There were a couple of rather poignant scenes in the movie which spoke to me personally.

In the film, Deborah, one of the three main characters, dreams about sitting next to a hospital bed whose occupant looks very much like herself, and afterwards walking down a woodsy trail, and coming up on a homeless black man. Shortly thereafter, she sees her husband.  Ron is standing in a shallow, casket-shaped hole with a shovel, while digging it, yet deeper. And with this, her dream comes to an end.

Odd, this scene in the movie triggered a long lost memory from my childhood.

It was about 1960, and I was eleven or twelve, and just barely old enough to ‘know better’ when, for whatever reason, my dad made an off-hand remark in the presence of his little family.

“When I die, I wouldn’t mind if the grave digger found a nice cool spot under an oak tree, and planted me under it.”

Dear readers, I can tell you this prompted me to do something which you might consider a bit ‘strange and wonderful.’ For you see, sometime in the next couple of days I grabbed a shovel out of my dad’s chemical warehouse, (he was an exterminator) and (you guessed it)… began digging a hole. There was, after all, a couple of old oak trees on our ‘back 40,’ and it seemed like a good place to me to honor my father’s final wishes.

And as you might surmise, I lost little or no time telling him about my morbid accomplishment. No doubt, the conversation sounded pretty much as follows.

Pt. 2

(Me)

“Daddy, you know how you said you would like to be buried under an old oak tree?”

(Daddy)

Looking up, and a bit more compelled by his newspaper, than my monologue,

“Yes son. I remember saying that.”

(Me)

“Well, I dug you a grave under that big ole oak tree out back. Let me show it to you.”

(Daddy)

Suddenly a bit more interested in our conversation,

“You did what? You march yourself out there right now, and cover it up!”

I was confused, perplexed and disillusioned, to say the least. I mean, he said he wanted to be buried under an old oak tree. I just wanted to honor his wishes.

However, without further adieu, I marched myself out to that 6x6 foot hole, and began to return a few hundred pounds of dirt; a shovel full at a time.

Fast forward a full half century, and, well given the subject matter, and the obvious age of my father at this juncture, you might imagine he had long since entered the winter of his life, and, ultimately, succumbed to the effects of a stroke. (Strangely enough, on the same date as his retirement party; two decades earlier).

And though, my parents had made some preliminary arrangements with a cremation service, it was left to me to finalize the details.

Pt. 3

However, having spent the requisite amount of time with the funeral director, and when I felt the cost of the crematory’s least expensive urn was exorbitant, I decided to do something some family and friends might have regarded as a bit quirky; (but which would have brought a toothy grin to my father’s face).

I stopped by a high-end furniture and home décor store, and inquired about a (drum roll)… condiments container. I have long since forgotten whether I revealed the true nature of my need, but I settled on a nice burgundy colored ceramic jar for all of about $25. And after an artistically-inclined cousin decorated it with colorful roses, buttercups, daisies, and the like, I delivered my dad’s make-shift urn to the crematory.

A couple of days later, I retrieved the container, and hosted what remained of my father’s mortal remains in my home office; ‘til the memorial service, and subsequent internment.

Bright and early on the day of the service, I grabbed my father’s urn, jumped in my car and drove to the cemetery. I summarily proceeded to my parent’s gravesite, stopped the vehicle, hopped out, opened the trunk, pulled out a shovel, and dug a shallow hole in front of the headstone.

Having accomplished my task, I hopped back in my automobile, and my dad and I ‘set sail’ for the nearby Methodist church where I was privileged to sing “Amazing Grace” on his behalf, and celebrate his life with a large number of family and friends.

The service and following luncheon having concluded, my brothers, sister, and a few friends found our way back to the cemetery, and my father’s final resting place. I had prepared a few fitting remarks, and invited anyone else who wished to speak to also do so. And as each individual memorialized my father, (and as I had determined in advance) he or she placed a memento of their association with my dad in a large plastic bag; which also contained my father’s mortal remains.

Pt. 4

Having finished the informal ceremony, I set the urn in the hole, and began to shovel soil on and around it. And it suddenly occurred to me. The virtual fulfillment of prophecy. For hadn’t I dug a ‘practice pit’ on the apparent prompting of my father some 50 years earlier, and hadn’t I returned the soil from whence it came? Check.

Having completed my task, I looked around. Oak trees. The grounds of Wildwood Cemetery were absolutely replete with a myriad of stately old oak trees. Check.

When speaking about the death of a father or mother, it is not unusual to use a phrase like, “I buried my dad last week” (or) “I just buried my mom recently.” Well, as it fell together, there was nothing metaphoric or euphemistic about it. I literally buried my father, and a scant four years later, I buried my mother. (And who can say, perhaps my son will, one day, do the same favor for me).

But to reflect again on the biographically-inspired movie to which I alluded at the beginning of my story.

The aged homeless man had a name. He was Mr. Denver Moore. And as he stands behind a pulpit, and eulogizes his dear friend, Deborah, who before she ever knew him, met him in a dream, (and, sadly, preceded him in death) he poignantly reflects,

“Whether we are rich, or poor, or in between,… we’re not home yet. For you see, we’re all on a journey. One day we won’t be homeless ever again. We’ll be home.”

Both my father and mother are at rest now, and I was privileged to return them to the dust from whence they sprang. It is a lovely place filled with old oak trees and lovely azaleas. But this is not their final home. Not by a long shot.

No, my friends. They are happy and healthy, and young again. And they are (as the movie character so wisely alluded) no longer homeless.

They are finally home.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Pt. 71. Copyright Pending.

If you wish to share, save or copy, please include the credit line, above