EXCERPT

A light rain fell as everyone stepped from their cars to follow the Milwaukee Police Honor Guard carrying the casket, faceless pallbearers slowly moving in lockstep, the dramatic scene reminiscent of President Kennedy’s televised burial. They carefully positioned the shiny mahogany box on a stand above the open grave, a dismal sight framed by leafless trees and haunting gravestones looming above on a hillside. Even now, I can still hear the patter of rain drops on umbrellas, along with the faint, heart wrenching sound of women sobbing.

 

With about 50 souls gathered around him, the priest stood at the head of the casket and began the Catholic Rite of Committal. “In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. We gather here to commend our brother, Carroll August Beecher . . .”

 

Prayers for the repose of the soul. Sprinkling of holy water. As an attendant slowly lowered the coffin into the grave, the somber shrill of bagpipes began. “Amazing Grace” washed over us from the nearby hillside. Before I turned to look, I knew I would see Uncle Jim. Sure enough, there he was, in full piper regalia.

 

Jim was one of Grandpa Beecher’s twin sons and had learned to play the pipes while stationed in Japan during his time in the Air Force. Uncle Jim was not married, a very funny man, if not a bit eccentric for a 27-year-old. He stood erect; his face puffed from continually blowing the air needed to produce the pipe’s distinctive tones. This was not the silly uncle I knew. Suddenly, it felt like I was in a movie scene where the hero dies and receives a heart-rending send off. A surge of quivering lips. Handkerchiefs dabbing at tears and sniffling noses. I was feeling the most powerful moment of the day. Clearly, the feeling was mutual.

 

The pipes stopped. “Our burial rite for Carroll August Beecher has ended,” the priest declared. “May you go in peace to love and serve the Lord in his memory.”

 

Those words, along with the visual that accompanied them would also be indelibly etched into memory – four women, a huge tree trunk looming behind them, standing from left to right in front of the casket.

 

Demi was on the left, looking like Jackie Kennedy at her husband’s gravesite, adorned in a black pillbox hat with meshed veil. Her posture, perfectly upright, as she stood solemn-faced in her trademark, shaded-lens glasses (photochromic lenses, the precursor to transitional lenses). She always looked classy, though at that moment, I couldn’t stop myself from picturing her vava-voom solo dance in a sexy sequined dress at Aunt Marge’s last Christmas party. Ma said Demi had been an exotic follies dancer a long time ago, whatever that meant.

 

Next to her was my mother, sobbing uncontrollably, clutching a handkerchief to her face, more grief-stricken than anyone. I don’t remember what she was wearing. I wanted to look away but couldn’t. My stomach churned at the sight. My eyes slid right to escape the surge of wetness that began to cloud my vision.

 

I wiped my eyes and saw Aunt Joan, my mother’s sister, looking placid, as always. She had a black scarf on her head and those cat-eye eye glass frames she always wore. Her expression was stoic, seemingly indifferent and out-of-place. The contrast was striking.

 

The fourth woman was their sister Marge, my favorite aunt, at least on my mother’s side. She wore a hat. She looked wistful, yet calm, as if wanting to stay strong for daughter Julie, who stood to her left and held her hand.

Julie’s eyes shifted my way. Our eyes met. I was startled, as if caught staring. To break the tension, I wiggled my eyebrows up and down, silent humor I had picked-up from the man in the box. She smiled back with a slight disapproving head tilt, as if to say, don’t make me laugh, you brat.

 

It was always apparent that Ma had the greatest affection for her father. Although she appeared happy and kept her composure at the funeral parlor, her graveside outpouring was the saddest thing I had ever seen in my life. It was as if Carol Jr.’s bond with Carroll Sr. was a powerful force that transcended simply being his namesake, a depth of connection impossible for me to understand.