Inurnment, Memorial, Reception

Two o’clock. Silveyville Cemetery. Three digit temperature. Suit and tie. Seats on the lawn, a canopy. Relatives assembled from their cars. Hugs and quiet helloes. Simple Methodist service. As requested, I stood back in the shade and softly played Amazing Grace on a trumpet. Urn placed in a small square hole. Flower petals – I jumped in line to be by my mother’s side in case she stumbled. She did not.

Three o’clock. Dixon United Methodist Church. The old element of the small town filled the pews: Lions, Soroptimists, farmers, business partners. Short service. A few family members spoke, including me. A few friends and colleagues spoke. Two hymns, including Oh God, Our Help From Ages Past. My mother’s choice: The tune is also associated with Cal Berkeley. As I sat in front and contemplated the carpet, there was peace, sitting in this fine old farm town church built in 1866, a train passing just outside every fifteen minutes or so.

Four o’clock. Jess Jones Winery. A vast tent, catered food, wine, beer, out between the vineyards and tomato fields. Visiting with family, with my cousins and their old friends. Now us kids are in our fifties. There is a warmth I never sensed before. Though my cousins’ friends were only at the periphery of my life and I at theirs, way back then when we were all just launching into our lives, somehow now with a large circle of some thirty years seeming to close, I feel as though we were always friends all along.

Is that a legacy of my Aunt Mary Louise? I don’t know. She and Art were a very hospitable pair and well loved. Now they are well missed. But neither would want us to dwell on that.