On the tips of my fingers

Home-Scotland, MD April 23rd, the day after my 44th birthday, I set out to visit my Mom down county, in southern MD. We had just had some major work done on the truck but I trusted the mechanics and off Dash and I went. Of course as my luck goes... about 10 miles from my childhood home the truck lost all oil pressure and there I was sitting on a country road shoulder. Now this would have been the perfect time for a cigarette... if I still smoked, but instead I called the garage that had just fixed our oil pressure issue and asked WHY this had happened. 113.3 miles into my trip and I was a highway statistic. He claimed it might just be the gauge, so I restarted the truck and sure enough... oil pressure fine... gauges working... ready for take-off. I pulled back onto the road and vowed to NOT race away from traffic lights like I just had done prior to my temporary engine failure. In fact, for the next 4 days I probably wouldn't go over 30 mph. Let me backtrack some.... I had stopped at my brother Edwards briefly on my way through Hollywood, MD, only to be greeted by his new Pit bull, Maggie, who I later discovered is just a big wet tongue that gives Super Happy licks to everyone new that she meets. I also found out that nobody was home because they were all on their way to my Aunt Marilyn's funeral. I hadn't planned for a funeral. I only had jeans and maybe a dark t-shirt to wear, so I got to my moms... changed and headed up to the church. Home- Scotland, MD St Michael's, is the family church. We were all baptised there, confirmed there, confessed our most darkest secrets to the priests who were sometimes WAY to willing to hear them, and ultimately most of us will have our funeral service there. Today was Aunt Marilyn's turn. Since the funeral was almost over, I just waited outside. The other reason I didn't go in was because I really wasn't sure if this was HER funeral. I'm pretty positive had I gone in and it wasn't hers, I would have still been related to whoever was inside. In a few moments the doors opened and the procession started. It's an honor to be a Pall Bearer, but I'm seeing my family in that position more and more often these days. Having been one of the group who carried my sister to her final resting place, I realized just how much closure there is in placing a loved one in their grave. Just like holding their hand as they take their last breath, releasing the coffin to the earth that will consume them has as much power. A solemn act that affords us only a moments reflection can seem an endless loop in time until that moment when your finger tips brush away from the smooth wooden handles and you can feel the life slip away. It was the most peaceful loss I have ever experienced. A chance to say goodbye that final time... and know it was OK. I didn't get this chance with my father.... I mean, I did say good bye to him a few days before he died, because we knew he was dying, but I don't remember his funeral. Mostly because it was shrouded in some sort of secret inbred ritual of not wanting people to see him or make a fuss. "Jesus Christ" is the only correct exclamation for this.... Funerals are for the living..... If you don't want people seeing you, then make arrangements to be dumped at sea or better yet, just wander off somewhere before you make that last exit. I don't mean to be so harsh about my fathers funeral, but I really don't remember it. I wasn't on any drugs and I wasn't drunk until much later that night, so there isn't any reason why I shouldn't remember why I wasn't asked to help carry my own Dad. Seriously, there are five of us boys and it takes at least 6 to carry a coffin. I'm not in a wheelchair, and we were on speaking terms. I'm gonna have to find out.... hmm! I followed my family and friends to the KC Hall (Knights of Columbus) to the usual after funeral social and lunch where as usual I was greeted by relatives who still don't know me and greeted relatives I still don't know. This was over in no time it seems and I headed back to my moms to start my intended visit with her. The next couple days we talked and laughed and got way too serious from time to time, but over-all it was an excellent visit. There was, as fate would have it, another funeral the following day for a family friend and then to the KC Hall again, and the 3rd day of my visit we went to the graveyard to spruce up my dads grave. I took a lot of time to myself because peace and quiet was in large order. Two funerals and a graveyard visit in 3 days automatically puts anyone in a reflective head-space. Walking around the old barns I remember once when someone asked me, "didn't I get depressed seeing the farm I grew up on falling into disrepair". I told them no, looking at these old barns now, I see them resting. Their sagging rooftops, the poles that once stood straight, now bowing from the weight they once shouldered so proudly. Boards missing and tin curling back only remind me of a normal aging process. These barns were once living things that protected us and the farm. Without these barns, crops and livestock would have perished.... possibly even a few human lives would have been lost. They stood strong and graciously performed every task that was demanded of them. Now it was time to let them rest in peace. Standing quietly on a sunny afternoon, I swear I could hear a gentle sigh. The barns knew I was admiring them and not wishing them to be strong again or worse, gone, but just admiring them. Gentle souls they are, having completed their task in life. I ran my hands across a splintered paint chipped board and bid the old barn farewell. I thanked it for everything it did for me and for everyone who ever entered its doors, and as my fingers brushed away from the course weathered board I could feel a life slipping away peaceful and content. So much can change in a lifetime or even a moment and I refuse to be sad when I see death or decay. Life is a cycle and we must all embrace death as a beginning. I've probably repeated this too many times and I'll more than likely live to regret it, but I've made the claim that when my Mom does finally go to join my Dad, I'm going to officially declare myself an only child. I've always been the youngest of thirteen and I've lived my whole life being "the baby". I've listened to drama, been part of the drama, and outlived some of the drama. Most of it not my fault and not my business. None-the-less, I was put their by the powers that be for a reason. I've been working hard at trying to figure out why and believe I'm getting close to an answer. I'm struggling with a question though. If a relative who's just mean and hateful wasn't related I would NEVER be friends with or want to socialize with them. So why does the fact that we're related change that decision? A bastard is a bastard and I don't hang out with bastards!! Now don't get me wrong.... my whole family is NOT like that and claiming myself an only child does NOT mean I'll end communication with most of my family. They'll simply become friends at that point, and the ones who have caused me so much grief will be placed in another folder until which time it becomes full and I can "Empty" it. I guess in doing this I'm tricking myself into believing that if they're not related the loss won't be so great when they die. Perhaps in time I'll change my mind, but for now it's comforting and I guess foolish to think, this way I won't lose any more relatives. My Mom claims she can hear my Dad snoring. Now I didn't hear it myself, but I TOTALLY believe her, since I've had my own ghostly experiences. She said how "just the other night I was sittin here with nothing on, and I heard him snoring". Now, there are thirteen of us kids. It's highly unlikely that if Mom was sitting there with nothing on, that it was DAD that was snoring. Of course she meant no radio was playing or TV was on, just quiet, but it was still funny. It's good that she hears and has even seen his ghost, and I'm glad she tells us about it. Of course there will be that last time she sees him that none of us will ever hear about, and that's when he'll come to take her. 54 years of marriage..... he BETTER be the one to come get her!!! I'm 44 yrs old, I finally, several years ago, got the courage to hug my Mom when I saw her and when I was leaving. We never were big on hugs growing up... not sure why... we just weren't. The thing that bugs me the most is why I can't tell her I love her. I talked to my Dad 4 days before he died, knowing he was dying and didn't tell him how much he really meant to me. I didn't hug him. I played it safe and told him to tell everyone Hi for me when he got there. Yep, that's me make a joke before your final exit.... don't let 'em know how you really feel. Well, I hugged Mom really hard when I left. I also paid attention to how soft her sweater felt on my finger tips as they brushed across her shoulders. Shoulders that have carried the weight of the world for so many years and just now are starting to rest. I watched Mom in the rear view mirror and stopped at the end of the driveway to admire her. How many times she must have stood just like that.... strong and proud and protective. How soon would she breath that sigh of relief when she knew her work was done. Just like the coffin and the barn board, she has all these qualities and more. She carries compassion and most of all unquestionable love. I'm glad I got to visit and I hope there are many more, but if those same powers that put me here decide to take her, I won't have any regrets. I may not have told her How much I love her, but at least I didn't make her doubt it.