TheBanyanTree: Two Days; Two Funerals

[dale.m.parish at gmail.com]

Two Days; Two Funerals

 

FRIDAY, at Bobby's graveside service, after almost everyone had told a story

about the old cowboy, his horses, his grandkids, and his roping, Joe asked
if

anyone else had something to say.  

 

I asked, "What's the significance of the roadrunner on the stone," referring

to the carved roadrunner on the headstone between Bobby's name and date of

birth and the name and date of birth of his wife, who preceded him some
years.

 

Joe snickered.  "You know about twelve-ons and twelve-offs.  For the rest of

you, Mama worked them at the hospital, where they'd work a few days, a day

off, then a few nights, and a few nights off, then towards the end of the

month, they'd have eight days and nights off.  Bobby got his shift at the

plant to coincide with Mama's so they'd both have eight days off together.

They bought a Toyota Landcruiser, a cook stove, and two six foot six
sleeping

bags that would zip together, and put in an ice chest and a sack of
firewood.

When they had both finished their last night shift before their eight days

off, they'd meet at 05:30 when they got off, drive up to the lake and cook

breakfast over a fire and watch the sun come up.  Then, they'd do the dishes

and load up in the Toyota and head out.  Carlsbad, Colorado, the panhandle,

Arkansas, Florida, didn't matter-- they'd be gone the whole eight days

somewhere, running the roads and sleeping in the back of the Toyota.  When I

got mine, I had to buy an air mattress, but not them.  That's why the road

runner on their stone."

 

Joe looked at Cindy for a minute, and then said, "I'm going to tell another

story about Bobby.  You don't ride a stud horse in a trail ride.  You just

don't.  But Bobby's Morgan horse stud, he let YOU ride in the Dogwood

Festival Parade.  Nobody else but you and Bobby ever rode that horse-- he

trusted you with that horse, but nobody else.  Ever."  

 

I knew the horse-- Bobby had worked for us as ranch manager when I was a
kid.

When we'd had trouble with PWRs-- Piney Wood Rooters-- wild hogs tearing up

the pastures, Bobby had brought that stud and his hog dogs down for a hog

hunt.  My horse would never allow anyone to shoot off him-- if you got on
him

with a pistol or a rifle, when he heard the first click of a gun being
cocked,

he started crow hopping, and if you did fire a shot, you were in for a
rodeo.

Not Bobby's horse.  He had an long hex barrel 32-20 pump that I'd seen Bobby

stick the barrel right over that stud's head and shoot a hog, and that stud

never quivered-- was still for a second shot.  Enviable.

 

SATURDAY

I don't know much about Episcopalians, and my hearing is such that I don't

understand much of what is said when the priests are all wearing masks, but
I

stood up and sat down with the rest of them.  After the service, there
seemed

to be a division to the exit-- many were escorted out down front, but it

seemed that was the younger contingent-- those of us younger than 80 were

going out front, and the older congregation members were going out the back.

I looked at Cindy with a quizzical look, and we decided that we'd go out

front.  Turns out we were going outside to some kind of outdoor vestibule

where the immediate family gathered, and the rest of us stood out in the

church yard under the live oaks for shade.  I couldn't hear what was being

said by the priests, but then a guy pulled out his guitar case and the
priests

exited the enclosure and a lady pulled out some sheet music and encouraged

everyone to get in the shade and gather round.  Seems the deceased had a
sense

of humor, and had requested these offspring to lead the mourners in singing

three specific songs.  I was surprised when I heard the first chords to "It

Wasn't God Who Made Honkey Tonk Angels," but when the vocalist leading us

broke into those words, I had to sing along.  Through all the verses.  The

next one was "Drop Kick Me Jesus, Through The Goal Posts Of Life," followed
by

"Rock Of Ages." 

 

Then we all went upstairs to the fellowship hall for punch and cookies,
where

two Airmen performed the flag ceremony, reverently unfolding and presenting

the colors, then just as reverently refolding the flag and presenting it to

the oldest son.  Brings tears to my eyes every time.  My oldest son had that

duty for the last six months of his enlistment, attending veteran's funerals

in a two hours drive radius from Fort Polk.  I had PNOKers duty when I was
on

active duty-- Primary Next Of Kin notification.  I'd get a call at 05:00 in

the morning advising me to head out to the plant and get my orders to locate
a

survivor, which would often have to be tracked down with help of the sheriff

or other law enforcement, to deliver the short spiel, "Maam, the Secretary
of

Defense regrets to inform you of the death of your husband/son/grandson,

etc...." and then inform the survivor that a Survival Assistance Officer
would

be contacting them for arrangements.  During the Viet Nam War, those came
too

often.  

 

But these were the first two funerals we've been to recently that weren't

COVID victims.  Both had led a long and fruitful life.  The kind I'd rather
go

to.  Week before last was the brother of a friend who had refused to get

vaccinated and died of COVID at 48.  Sad.

 

 

--

Dale M. Parish                                   For All Of Mankind'S
Supposed Accomplishments,

628 Parish RD                                    Our Continued Existence Is
Dependent Upon 20

Orange TX 77632-0264                    Centimeters Of Topsoil And The Fact
That It Rains.

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--Toilet Stall Wall

409-790-2352