Matthew

My flight was supposed to leave the Evansville airport at 11:20, however, as usual things did not go exactly as planned. As soon as I passed through security I noticed that my flight was delayed until 12:10. No big deal, or so I thought, until they changed it yet again to 1:10. This would have made my 1:45 connection pretty hard considering it’s an hour flight to Memphis. At this point I decided to call Northwest. They put me on a different flight to Detroit, and although that meant that I would not get back to my dorm until 10 PM, it would at least mean that I would get back that night.

All problems with today’s air travel aside, I had some very interesting conversations with the guy – Burke Gerth… or Gerth Burke, can’t really remember which – who was sitting next to me on the first leg of my flight. He was on his was to Tanzania to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. This is a trip that he and his childhood friend – they both grew up and live in Evansville – have been planning for three years. They are attempting the ascent in six days hoping that this is the ideal amount of time to avoid both altitude sickness and climber’s fatigue. After their climb, they were also going on a safari, pointing out that if you are going to Africa, you might as well see the animals.

I can’t remember how we got on the subject, but we got into when he used to parasail. He said that it was a ton of fun and thought that it was relatively safe. He thought this until his sail broke off and he went head first into a tree, and then head first into the ground. He broke his neck in the fall. Although he did not injure his spinal cord, which he is thankful for, he was stuck in a neck brace for a month and a half and it was not certain that he would be able to return to the job which he loves. He said that although he really enjoyed parasailing, hitting that tree kind of took all the fun out of it. I told him that I doubt anyone thinks any less of him for giving it up.

His story about breaking his neck, and being a firefighter, reminded me of a story Jeffery told us a day or so earlier. I told Burke a friend of my dad’s knew a firefighter who fell off a picnic bench, broke his neck and died.

At this point Burke looked at me and seemed a little upset – strange because he was a very upbeat guy. It turns out that Burke was actually that firefighter’s friend, and he was there at the time of the accident. He said that he saw his friend fall, and that he and his buddies thought he was kidding when his friend said he could not get up. But soon Burke felt sick to his stomach as he learned the truth.

However, this is not what killed his friend. After the accident, and in the hospital, his friend lost his will to live. He had been through a few years of a terrible divorce, and his job was all he really had to live for. He was a fairly poor guy and did not want to have to be taken care of all his life so he stopped eating and refused to let anyone visit. Took three weeks before he finally died.

We also talked of Burke’s time in the army, how he was stationed in Germany during the cold war. He said that it was an okay time and he really had a lot of respect for the German people. He also said he enjoyed his leaves, and loved the fact that he was able to see all the places he really wanted to.

After the war he worked in a state park as a fire-something-or-other, and said it was the best job he ever had, and that’s where he met his first wife. It was a good job for someone who was single, but once he got married they moved to Evansville. He said that his wife was homesick every day that they were married, and eventually she moved back to Colorado. He said that the other problem was the fact that they had very different upbringings, his being that of a conservative German, and she a freethinking liberal who grew up with Indians. I thought that was a nice touch. He was married to her for 11 years, and has now been married to his second wife for ten and is sure that she will be the last.

“As we remember James, we hope for peace, strength and courage to rise above the sadness and confusion.”

This afternoon at Lincoln-Sudbury there was a rememberance ceremony for the boy who was killed at the high school on January 19. In the three weeks that have gone by the kids at that school have truly risen to the occasion, and things have gone back to normal as much as they possibly can. I didn’t quite know what to expect during the service, and the reason I went, besides being part of the service, was because my son plays in the concert band (as did James) and I wanted to see him. I didn’t see him, I was in the wrong seat, but my other son, Matthew, who was next to me claimed he saw Michael’s head. I believe him.

With a picture of a young James projected on a large screen, the service began with Katie Lee Crane, Minister of the First Parish Church in Sudbury telling us to remember what happened that day. Where we were when it happened, how we heard the news, words that were exchanged…I knew him…I didn’t know him…What if it was me…I’m glad it wasn’t me…I can’t believe this happened…I wish this never happened. I have to say she cut to the core very quickly and I didn’t expect it. Then the concert band played a fittingly somber version of Amazing Grace. I wish I knew who did the clarinet solo, she was so moving.

Two teachers and a student got up to speak and things got very intense. The first teacher, who is Michael’s social studies teacher, Ms. Meskoob, got as far as saying she knew how much she loved her students but didn’t know how much so until she lost one. Then she broke down completely, leaving James’ Spanish teacher to read what she had written. Dan, James friend, put his arm around Ms. Meskoob. Very touching moment. Each of them said something from each of James’ teachers…their last interactions with him, the type of student he was. And everyone talked about his smile…how he enjoyed a good laugh. Most heartening was when Dan read remembrances that students handed in about James. James was a Patriots fan and was excited about the upcoming Patriots Colts game, which he never lived to see. Another talked of his helping them with homework in Science and Math, of which he was an excellent student. The overall impression I got was that James was a quiet, kind kid who smiled easily and took things in. There were several that he read and frankly I don’t know how he got through it. But he did. Once Ms. Meskoob regained her composure she said some closing words. By this point we were all sobbing, but only I had a 10 year old next to me patting my back.

The minister then offered a moment of quiet time to “reflect on what we are feeling at this moment”. It was helpful as it gave us a chance to catch our breath. She invited anyone up to say something they might want to say. This part was kind of creepy. This boy got up and he looked just like the killer except he didn’t wear glasses. The killer’s name is Jack and this kids name was Jack. He said they were in Spanish class together and he didn’t know him that well but wished he had. His words were nice but his resemblance to the boy who did it took my breath away. And then the minister asked us to remember that losing James wasn’t the only tragedy in this. That Jack was a tragic figure as well and we need to remember him and his family right now. And to think about what circumstances in his life allowed for this to happen. The service closed with the Band playing something called “Aeries’ Theme” from Final Fantasy, which was a favorite of James’.

Afterward there was a reception and I got a chance to speak with Dr. Ritchie, our stellar superintendant/principal, and thank him for all he’s done. Boy has he aged in 3 weeks. He said he couldn’t take credit…he gave the credit to teachers and parents and of course his students. He chatted with my Matthew for a little bit “Which school are you in” he asked. “Peter Noyes Elementary, 5th grade” answered efficient Matthew, which brought a smile to Dr. R’s face. “We’ll see you in 4 years”.

On the way back to the car, Michael pointed out the bathroom it happened in. I could envision the scenario, as it was off the beaten path a little bit, next to a girls room and a utility closet with the library nearby. Not many classrooms nearby. I could see where it would be an abandoned area at 7:20 in the morning. “There were teachers standing here and here” Michael pointed out to us, “you couldn’t come down here”. Matthew shrugged. We all looked at the floor as if there still might be evidence laying around. To anyone walking into that school it would be just another hallway.

And so closes another chapter. There were no family members of James there. They have kept such a low profile through this whole thing. No negative comments to the press or anything to the press for that matter. ‘How do they get up every day’ a mother asked me as we were walking out. I said they have no choice, they have two other children they are raising. But it’s a valid question…when the shock eventually wears off, and the cards stop coming in, and the press goes away, then what? I suppose that’s when the grieving begins and gravity kicks in and you go on just because that’s what you do.

The concrete box is finally placed into the grave and now it’s time to set-up the casket lowering device. Again, nothing modern about this gizmo. Keith pulls out wooden planks from his truck to lay on the ground, and then various metallic pieces that he assembles on the planks, around which he winds his blue webbing, upon which the casket will be placed. This all takes a long time. Not long as in Mack time, but long by any other standard.

Finally, it’s time to move my father to his final address. We all walk over to the back of the van and Jim, the grave digger, reaches for the latch. I stop him.

“You’re like me, Jim, behind the times. Watch this. With my remote I press one button and up goes the rear door, and if I press this other button out shoots the casket.”

I thought that was one of my weaker lines, but Diane tells me dour Jim guffawed. Before that he’d been all business, though somewhat too content, we thought, to let Keith do most of the shoveling.

Two things about these photos. There may be too many, but I find the images iconic, or maybe they just mean too much to me to cut out. Also, I’m not comfortable being in so many of these photos. I’m usually the picture taker, the controller of my image, but both Diane and Peter were snapping away, so here I am. Obviously, this story is a much about Peter and Diane (and many, many others) as it is about me.

I didn’t add captions because I consider them unnecessary. After the windmills comes the town of Latham. If you click on the lower right corner of each full-sized image you’ll navigate in sequence.

Next: Peter adjusts Mack’s hat.

Michael

I’m not sure how hard up for blog content you are, and whether you’re still speaking to me so: I got invited to high tea on Saturday at the home of a retired colleague. (She made all the food from scratch except the scones.)  Another retired colleague not only took photos but sent them to me, so I don’t have to figure out anything about downloading and attaching. 

Jennifer

Peeps

Ask and the blogmeister receives.

Michael: “You’ve got to write a blog post, with pictures. Make sure Linda brings your camera when she picks you up”.

Dan: “God’s punishment for not being with you in Indiana”.

Beware of black ice on the driveway when you fetch the morning paper—or better yet, train your dog to get it.

I did neither…these pics illustrate the consequences.

(How exactly did this happen? Random interplay of gravity and physics).

In post-op bed at Emerson, having nice lunch before going home.

Ensconced comfortably in bed with Paxie watching over me.

Cast resting and movable wireless office established, thanks to nurse and case manager Linda.

Hardware sure to set off all airport metal detectors. Someone said I’ll need to carry a special medical card to get through.

Day 5: Re-gaining some freedom with my own “scooter libby”.

Big hugs and thank-yous to:

Mark and Adam: That Hendricks Gin Mark brought over is awesome!

Marjie and Freddy: The sunflowers and assorted nuts and chocolates basket was soooo nice.

Jim and Jim: Your get-well cookies arrived – had a couple with morning coffee.

Greg: Your visit and watching another episode of West Wing together was heartwarming.

Kathryn and Ro: For the idea and motivation to find me a leg scooter.

Lil, Cris, Val, Jack, Ilia, Anita, LaRad, Marjie, Becca, Greg, Jim, Polly, Drew, Kathryn, Susan, JimD, JimE, Betsy, Deb, Ruth, Bonnie (who did I forget?): For your calls / email / cards / visits.

Emerson Hospital ER staff (Julie, Nancy, Maureen, Paul): For your TLC, and Dr. Sackwell, for the deft reduction that put my foot back in proper alignment and took away the worst of the pain.

Emerson Hospital pre and post op staff (Judy, Michelle, Glasford, Jo, Sandy, Ariani, Mwaniki, Kathy): For your bedside manner, attentiveness, and for patiently answering all my questions.

Dr. Beyloume: For whisking me off to another planet before surgery.

Dr. Driscoll: For the great ORIF (open reduction & internal fixation) and temporary syndesmostic screw.

Miscellaneous thoughts:

Ginger: A twist on your favorite movie. Linda’s got “The English Patient” (her dad) downstairs. I’m the “Mexican Patient”, upstairs.

Sounds from shower after 4 days in bed (with cast in garbage bag): “oooohhhhh….aaaahhhhhh…oooooohhhhh…”

New-found mobility: Anybody need anything at Costco?

We’re off to catch our plane home so no time for an update other than an out of focus shot – again, near Latham,

and this self-explanatory one.

When we entered Latham Cemetery, and I confess I was still unsure that all my phone calls had produced a ready hole in the ground, we saw, in the distance, a lone truck next to a fresh mound of earth. We pulled up to the driver and instead of introducing ourselves we simply said hi.

Keith, who worked for the vault company, was a young guy, lean of frame, not too tall, and with a quick smile and efficient manner. He grumbled just a bit about how the concrete box (into which the body is placed) didn’t fit into the grave. Instead of four inches too long, the hole was four inches too short. Not a problem on a warm day with soft earth, and a truck with a motorized winch, but this day he had neither. The arduous process of raising and lowering the half ton box was pure mechanical advantage – a long chain wrapped through a series of pulleys. Easy to lower, but way slow to raise, and bare-handed Keith was doing just that in 11 degree wind chill weather.

He’d raise the box, hack away at the frozen earth, lower the box only to find it didn’t fit, raise it again and hack away more earth. Finally Keith gave up and pulled the box all the way out of the hole. He called the funeral home who called the grave digger, and together they jumped down and worked, spades in hand, on either side of Mack’s grave. Time was not exactly flying at we stood in the cold wind, so I’m guessing the too small hole added another two hours to the committal. Keith apologized but we didn’t care a bit. Peter simply joked about the stubborn earth mimicking the stubborn man about to placed into it.

Will it fit?

“Not a chance, Keith.”

Gaining access.

Keith works on one side and

Jim on the other.

I’m tired and I’m not sure how best to tell the rest of this story, so I’ll do what I always do when something feels too big. I’ll chop it into small pieces.

I’m happy Diane and Peter were part of this, and I wish Brian had been too. It still feels right that we brought Mack back to his roots, to the hardscrabble area in which he grew up. And it felt right that the only other people present were the grave digger and the man hired to provide the concrete box and lower Mack into the ground.

Leaving the Best Western in El Dorado.

Arriving for our meeting with Lionell at Carlson’s in Eldorado.

Lionell and Mack’s temporary grave marker.

Near Latham, Kansas.

Next: What happens when the grave is too small.

To those whose email’s are bouncing back please use michael at vanishingreality.com (at used here instead of @ to thwart the spam bots)

Look, I know this has become a macabre, deeply black-humored, morbidly fascinating event, but the fact that I too can laugh along with everyone else doesn’t mean I miss my father any less. But how the hell else can one cope with all this? With a straight face? I don’t think so.

We filled our tank for the second time just south of Kansas City and I turned to the pregnant woman sharing my pump and said, “This pump is so slow.”

“Maybe because we’re both using it?” She answered.

“Come on, it has to be able to handle both of us.”

To which she said, “You must not be from around here. I’m guessing one of the coasts. Everything is slow here.”

From there we talked about her trip to the west coast, her return to Kansas, why I’m in such a hurry and of course to what’s inside my van.

Her parting words before she climbed back into her car?

“So, do you look over and say, ‘Gee dad, you’ve been really quiet lately?’ ”

We arrived in El Dorado around 8 PM, just nine hours after we left Evansville. It’s been a real easy trip with me sleeping next to a driving Diane, while Peter naps with his head on the casket.

Diane and Peter approaching The Best Western in El Dorado.

The back of our van. That is a blanket on top of the casket. It’s disheveled as if we’re ambivalent about whether my father needs to be kept warm or not. To the right of him is our travel cooler loaned to us by Jeff and Karen.

We’ll be stopping in Nevada, Missouri on our way back to Evansville. After spending some of Thursday touring metropolitan Latham, I thought it only made sense to visit the town where my mother grew up. I haven’t been to Latham since 1985, or Nevada since the early seventies when I helped Peter drive out to California to attend the University of the Pacific.

We’ll be flying home on Saturday.

I

A couple days ago:

Diane: “I can’t believe Mack is really dead.”

Brian: “Spend ten hours in a van with him in a casket and you’ll believe it.”

We’ve reserved a Chrysler Town & Country which has seats that will fold down into the floor, leaving enough room for my father, Diane, Peter and me. I did check on the cargo area, and I was assured there would be enough, not for a casket, or “casket-sized steamer trunk,” but for a “large box about seven feet long.”

We’ve scheduled a service for 10 AM Thursday morning, after which the company that provides the vault will lower Mack into the ground. Our next stop – The Best Western in El Dorado, Kansas on Wednesday night.