My grandpa wasn't religious. This complicates matters. When my maternal grandma passed away, the Lutheran Church in Durango that she helped found, named, and participated stepped in immediately, taking over during a time of pain and grieving for my mother and her siblings. My paternal grandpa was religious in his upbringing and only occassionally went to the Unitarian church in Albuquerque with my dad and family to hear the beautiful music and teach the philosophically and ethical based Sunday school they offered. This only on Sundays where the powder in Santa Fe or Taos did not beckon them out skiing.
The ceremony, therefore, was a collection of people gathered in the beautiful cemetery by a slow-flowing river, telling stories, listening to his favorite classical music, reading poems and short stories he loved, and telling his off-color jokes. We cried and laughed.
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| Grandpa Jim. |
When packing for the funeral, I frantically came out to tell my mom I had nothing black to wear and we should get something before I go.
My dad, reading the newspaper in the big, overstuffed chair in our living room, glass of fine Spanish Rioja next to him, suddenly piped up from deep between the sighing pieces of newsprint: "You don't need anything black. It's grandpa's burial and he doesn't want everyone wearing black. We're not mourning, we're going to be celebrating his life." He returned to the news.
My mom and I were silent for a second and then looked at each other. I sat down, mom turned back to the local news on the TV, spewing something about Hurricane Irene.
It was Grandpa Jim, summed up perfectly.
