A year ago, I buried my parents
A year ago, I buried my parents. It was a sunny crisp day, not quite autumn anymore but not quite winter. It had been rainy and ugly for several days and we commented on how nice it was to the priest from my parent's last parish, Father Sari, who we met in the parking lot at Arlington National Cemetery. My dad was a disabled vet from World War II, so he and my mom were eligible to be buried there. They died only a few weeks apart, so their burials were scheduled for the same day.
We entered the Administration building and were sent by the respectful folk at the entrance to one of the waiting rooms downstairs. Arlington does a couple dozen funerals every day, so they have the process down to an efficient yet dignified science. Some friends of mine and my brother and his wife joined us in the room. An official brought in some paperwork to sign and then brought us outside. The grave was close to the building, strange considering the size of the place, with over 400,000 graves.
Two hearses were parked along the road. Two squads of Army bearers stood at attention nearby, as did a squad holding rifles for the honors. When we arrived the soldiers took the caskets, one covered with an American flag, from the hearses and carried them to the grave and we followed quietly behind. There were a couple chairs set up by the grave and my brother Mike and I took our seats with our wives, Elaine and Robin. A soldier stood nearby with a middle aged woman, one of the Ladies of Arlington. Father Sari took his place by the caskets and began the service.
The service was simple and short, Rite I Episcopal Service of Burial. My folks liked the old fashioned language. I remember little of it now, though I recall Sari was one of the better priests I've run across during a couple of decades singing and working in churches. My friends said after the service that he seemed like the real thing. More folk had the same comment about him after the memorial service at the church a couple weeks later.
After he finished the religious rites, the sergeant asked us to stand for the military honors. The soldiers fifty yards away to our left shot a couple volleys into the air and then held their rifles at attention. Amidst the gravestones about fifty yards to our right, a bugler played taps, simply but beautifully. It was impossible to not cry at its sound. The soldiers at the grave folded the American flag into a perfect triangle. Their sergeant bowed on one knee, cradling the flag in his arms, thanked us, on behalf of the President of the US and a grateful nation, for my father's service and sacrifice, and presented the flag to my brother.
My dad was 94 when he died. After his service in the Army Air Force nearly 70 years ago, he went to college on the GI Bill, had a family, saw his sons and wife go to college in his footsteps, led a long life. I recall wondering at that moment in the cemetery what it would be like for the sergeant to present the flag to a young sobbing widow, perhaps holding her children's hands, whose hopes and dreams had been dashed by war. I hoped that the soldiers there would someday receive the same honors my dad received, after they had lived a long happy life.
We were given a card from President Obama (I didn't realize they did that) and a card from the Arlington Lady, a member of the organization whose mission is that no veteran is buried with no one there to say good bye. The soldiers marched away, no doubt to do the same service for another family. We stood around and chatted for a little while. My brother and I thanked people for coming, talked about how nice the day was, how sincere the priest seemed, how beautiful the Taps sounded. The representative from the funeral home went over to where the soldiers shot the volley and brought my brother and I some of the shell casings. I put some in my pocket and put them on the mantle at home.
We were there when the crew that actually buries the bodies arrived. They lowered one casket into the concrete liner, placed the cover over it, placed the second concrete liner over it, placed the second casket in it, placed the cover over it, and shoveled dirt over the site. Though it was hard work, they still did it respectfully, as if they were burying their own family. We thanked them, went back to our cars, and came back into town and had some lunch.
Since that day I realize, when seeing people with their parents or speaking about their parents, that though I had my parents for a fortunate 50 years, I don't have them any more, only memories of them. I do have some things of theirs, memories of my time with them, and the life that they gave me. Frankly I'm glad they're buried close by, across the river, with a view of the Washington Monument to the east and the Air Force Memorial to the south. It gives me a chance to sprinkle some bird seed by their grave so they can have the birds fly nearby.
A couple months later we helped clean up the donated holiday wreaths placed on the graves at Arlington every year. Their gravestone hadn't been placed yet, only a plastic marker with their names. The place looks a lot less desolate in winter with the wreaths by each stone, much like it does six months later on Memorial Day when each grave has a small American flag in front of it. My folks loved Christmas, the decorations, the music, the gift giving. I think they would like the wreath on their grave every Christmas.
I look forward to seeing the wreath by their gravestone in a couple weeks.
We entered the Administration building and were sent by the respectful folk at the entrance to one of the waiting rooms downstairs. Arlington does a couple dozen funerals every day, so they have the process down to an efficient yet dignified science. Some friends of mine and my brother and his wife joined us in the room. An official brought in some paperwork to sign and then brought us outside. The grave was close to the building, strange considering the size of the place, with over 400,000 graves.
Two hearses were parked along the road. Two squads of Army bearers stood at attention nearby, as did a squad holding rifles for the honors. When we arrived the soldiers took the caskets, one covered with an American flag, from the hearses and carried them to the grave and we followed quietly behind. There were a couple chairs set up by the grave and my brother Mike and I took our seats with our wives, Elaine and Robin. A soldier stood nearby with a middle aged woman, one of the Ladies of Arlington. Father Sari took his place by the caskets and began the service.
The service was simple and short, Rite I Episcopal Service of Burial. My folks liked the old fashioned language. I remember little of it now, though I recall Sari was one of the better priests I've run across during a couple of decades singing and working in churches. My friends said after the service that he seemed like the real thing. More folk had the same comment about him after the memorial service at the church a couple weeks later.
After he finished the religious rites, the sergeant asked us to stand for the military honors. The soldiers fifty yards away to our left shot a couple volleys into the air and then held their rifles at attention. Amidst the gravestones about fifty yards to our right, a bugler played taps, simply but beautifully. It was impossible to not cry at its sound. The soldiers at the grave folded the American flag into a perfect triangle. Their sergeant bowed on one knee, cradling the flag in his arms, thanked us, on behalf of the President of the US and a grateful nation, for my father's service and sacrifice, and presented the flag to my brother.
My dad was 94 when he died. After his service in the Army Air Force nearly 70 years ago, he went to college on the GI Bill, had a family, saw his sons and wife go to college in his footsteps, led a long life. I recall wondering at that moment in the cemetery what it would be like for the sergeant to present the flag to a young sobbing widow, perhaps holding her children's hands, whose hopes and dreams had been dashed by war. I hoped that the soldiers there would someday receive the same honors my dad received, after they had lived a long happy life.
We were given a card from President Obama (I didn't realize they did that) and a card from the Arlington Lady, a member of the organization whose mission is that no veteran is buried with no one there to say good bye. The soldiers marched away, no doubt to do the same service for another family. We stood around and chatted for a little while. My brother and I thanked people for coming, talked about how nice the day was, how sincere the priest seemed, how beautiful the Taps sounded. The representative from the funeral home went over to where the soldiers shot the volley and brought my brother and I some of the shell casings. I put some in my pocket and put them on the mantle at home.
We were there when the crew that actually buries the bodies arrived. They lowered one casket into the concrete liner, placed the cover over it, placed the second concrete liner over it, placed the second casket in it, placed the cover over it, and shoveled dirt over the site. Though it was hard work, they still did it respectfully, as if they were burying their own family. We thanked them, went back to our cars, and came back into town and had some lunch.
Since that day I realize, when seeing people with their parents or speaking about their parents, that though I had my parents for a fortunate 50 years, I don't have them any more, only memories of them. I do have some things of theirs, memories of my time with them, and the life that they gave me. Frankly I'm glad they're buried close by, across the river, with a view of the Washington Monument to the east and the Air Force Memorial to the south. It gives me a chance to sprinkle some bird seed by their grave so they can have the birds fly nearby.
A couple months later we helped clean up the donated holiday wreaths placed on the graves at Arlington every year. Their gravestone hadn't been placed yet, only a plastic marker with their names. The place looks a lot less desolate in winter with the wreaths by each stone, much like it does six months later on Memorial Day when each grave has a small American flag in front of it. My folks loved Christmas, the decorations, the music, the gift giving. I think they would like the wreath on their grave every Christmas.
I look forward to seeing the wreath by their gravestone in a couple weeks.
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