This Father’s Day morn finds me somewhat contemplative as I sit here with my cup of coffee. The weekend has not been as planned, and I am reminded once again that such is oft a good thing. Planning is a good and necessary thing, but all plans must allow for the fact that life happens—and so does death.
Yesterday I had planned to attend a funeral, or rather, three funerals held together. We gathered at the gravesites to say our goodbyes. Unlike most funerals, the bodies were simply in their shrouds. The shrouds were pulled back for a short time, so that people could come over, touch, and say goodbye to each of the departed. Some of us tucked grave goods in under the shrouds, an offering to go with them on that journey. Then, J gamely climbed down into the graves; and, then friends in life closed the shrouds and carried the dead to the grave one at a time, giving J time to move as needed.
The service is/was a thing I do admire. Those that knew the departed longest start by speaking of them, telling tales and sharing fond memories. It is a time in which laughter can and should come to go with the “remember the time when’s” that go around. Tears, yes, and a lot of sniffles as memories are shared between those young and old in friendship. Flowers, mostly hand-picked from yards and gardens of those present, are then dropped in on top of the shrouds. Then, those that knew the departed longest, were closest to them, take up a spade, and tenderly begin the process of filling the grave. Each person there takes that turn, and once there is a sufficient cover, the shovelling increases in pace until the grave is full and a mound remains under the open sky.
I can’t help but think of my father’s funeral. It was graveside too. As he wanted, as we discussed, it was short and sweet. Mostly a military funeral, with the preacher keeping his extemporaneous words to a minimum. Maybe he did indeed know of the pact Dad and I had made years before, and renewed just recently before his death, of how a preacher who did not do so was to be dealt with. The preacher knew I was on edge, for I had to be the strong one, the one to organize, take care of things, and deal with all the family politics so that things would go as smoothly as they could. For I did not trust some to honor that time, and still feel I was wise not to do so. It was hard having to deal with Dad’s funeral, and harder still not being able to truly make it my focus. Afterwards, we did go and share memories, but again I managed and directed. In many respects, that was not a bad thing, for it allowed me to cope in a different way, and kept me busy.
Staying busy at such times works for me. It is also a way to honor those gone. Taking care of details, of seeing to it that jobs are done right, of taking the time to do some of them myself—that is a good final gift to give to someone.
I think Dad would have liked some of the simplicity of yesterday’s services. He refused to pick out a casket, telling me instead that he would be quite happy in a simple shroud, a blanket as so many of his fellow Marines were given where they fell on those remote Pacific islands. He would have appreciated and approved of the simple shrouds yesterday, though I know of one time where he took out his tools and built a casket for one who was gone. It was his way to deal with the grief, and to provide such for one who was unable to build in advance or afford when gone.
The telling of tales is an old family tradition, particularly on Dad’s side. I can’t remember how many times we gathered in the kitchen of the sole remaining family home, one almost as old as this country, to swap the tales and share the laughter. To celebrate a life.
I think Dad might have snorted a bit at some of the grave goods, for why waste such was his thought. He told me flat out years ago that he was NOT going to pickle me in brandy a la Nelson because he was not going to waste good brandy. He would drink good brandy at my passing, but not throw it away into a grave. Yet, I seem to remember one time when he placed a grave good with a friend who had passed… I think he would have nodded and agreed with the single flower, and clump of bison fur I placed within the shroud.
D and I carried Tatanka to his grave. We lowered him down, and J took him the rest of the way, carefully and respectfully placing him on the straw that covered the bottom. He lies next to Kawani, companion in life, and the two of them lie not far from Seneca, mighty hunter and even better opener of gates.
When I was first brought into the Wolf Park family, I was invited (Shanghaied?) to a get together at Monty’s. Other than Monty, and I think G and P, I can’t tell you who was there except for Tatanka, Kawani, and the Raphael. Tatanka was quite impressive, and is the only true wolf-dog hybrid (I swear I think I could make a mint passing off Chihuahuas as wolf-dog hybrids) I have ever liked and trusted. He and I agreed on large crowds (like not). He had a tendency to food guard, loved to eat, and appreciated the fact that the main table for the food was shoulder high to him… Thank goodness Jenny doesn’t food guard the refrigerator as Tatanka was known to do on occasion. He would come greet, encourage a certain amount of skritching and grooming, and then move off. Companionable, and not demanding. Kawani and the Raffish one, what can one say about two such retiring types (cough, choke, wheeze). Now, only Raff remains of that group, joined by Chumley who adores Jenny.
Seneca was a wolf I never met except through a fence. He truly was a mighty hunter, and gave some of the most exciting wolf-bison demos. He managed more than once to “get” a calf, at least until Mom realized what was going on and intervened. He also had a sense of humor, and one time he truly “got” a calf. He did a careful stalk, got up close, and leaped up at the calf’s face—and licked it on the nose. I swear he laughed, calling out “Gotcha!” I thought one day that he was going to leap up into P’s arms during a demo. There was a very aggressive bison cow at the time, who had all the humans in the field either in the truck or treed—literally as P and G (I think) were up on top of a large rootball for safety. The cow was chasing the wolves, and pushing Seneca hard—and I saw him look up at P and appear to seriously contemplate leaping up into her arms for safety (Mommy save me! That cow’s mad!). He didn’t, but I think it was a near run thing. He also was extremely good at opening gates, and developed a novel method of telling one and all that the wolf-bison demo was over: he would leap some eight to ten feet in the air to grab a rope, pull it with his weight and give a twist and kick—to open the large gate to the bison corral. Inside, the bison watering trough/tank made a dandy wolf wading/swimming pool on a hot day, and he and the other wolves would go indulge themselves. While he was one of our more interesting residents, he did have a soft spot for those he considered special. One day, the former managing director of the park was in the pond cleaning out the overflow pipe, and he was clearly unhappy with this. A reached out a hand towards him, to reassure, and Seneca took his paw and pulled it closer—and then carefully took A’s thumb and pulled them up onto the bank. He then got huffy when A insisted on going back in to finish the job, sort of a “if you’re that stupid” thing, and stalked off in his huff.
I ended up going in with some of the wolves afterwards, de-stressing and getting a duckweed shower, before joining the rest of the family at a local establishment for lunch and some liquid refreshment. While I had plans and a schedule for the day, I chunked them and went back out to the Park for the day. Work and a side project have caused me to take a leave of absence from my duties there, but they were sore shorthanded for the day, and I decided both to stay busy and take some time to do some things myself, and for myself. I enjoy giving tours, and telling the tales, so decided to tell some. To share a bit about my friends, to craft some words myself to give so that others might take them away as part of a memory and of understanding. For the wolves, dogs, foxes, and other canids are not the romanticized creatures of Hollywood, myth, and eco-myth. They are complex and interesting creatures—far more so than some humans I’ve met—and defy stereotyping: just as do humans. The largest difference between my canid/feline/other four-legged friends and humans is that I do trust the former—to be themselves. I trust them to act upon their natures, no more and no less. I know that some know me and that we have a good relationship; and, that they will bite me in a heartbeat were I to transgress socially or act so as to presume that relationship is more than it is.
I will miss watching Seneca hunt. I will miss skrtiching and petting Kawani. I will miss Tonks coming up and carefully greeting, and asking me if I had food. I will miss watching him check to see if anyone was looking before trying to make his way down one side of the table before anyone noticed…
Sad, yes, in part; but, my day yesterday was richer than anticipated for the memories, and the reminders. Reminders not merely of them, or even of my own father’s funeral. Rather, reminders of the times with Dad where we thought, talked, and shared. Memories of him laughing, grieving, and doing. Memories not just of him building a casket with his own hands, but memories and the realization that he built a foundation of thought, knowledge, and ethics with and for me.
Those are the true memories of Father’s Day. Not the death, not the funeral, not the politics—the life. The craftsmanship of that life, and of the legacy and foundation he built for me. That is my Father’s Day gift from him, and one I share with you. A very special gift from my Dad, and from friends. Thanks Dad. Thank you my friends.
