On families, funerals and graves
I had an extraordinary moment at my father-in-law’s funeral last month. I suddenly realized, as we celebrated the long rich life of this quintessential Maine man, that I knew where I am to be buried, and I had a sense of what my own funeral might be like.
His name was Peter Wills and he died in early April — not from COVID, it was just his time. The first pandemic surge was taking off so services weren’t being held inside. Spring was putting out a toe to test the water and it was still too cold to hold one outside. So the funeral was delayed until the end of September, and held graveside, instead at the First Congregational Church of New Gloucester, which Pete’s family had co-founded in 1765. It was a perfect fall day — the leaves edging the cemetery were starting to turn; the sky was blue, blue, blue; the air was cool and refreshing.
Unsurprisingly, given the history, the family has a plot. My wife’s mom is already there and her grave marker has an embossed Beano card, in honor of her Thursday evening ritual at the Amvets hall. “We can play this card,” my wife realized when they installed the flat stone. And now every August on the weekend near my mother-in-law’s birthday, family and close friends gather to play a few rounds of Beano, aka Bingo, and cook and eat the dishes she was famous for. Winners get their pick of a selection of employee store items from LL Bean, where my wife has worked for 40 years.
Pete loved tractors and had a half dozen antiques that he’d gotten up and running. So it made sense to use one for his final journey. His grandson got the John Deere Model L running and made a special box for the ashes, which he strapped on top of the engine. That morning a dozen of us formed a caravan, escorting the two of them down the half mile road to the Lower New Gloucester Cemetery. As we made our slow way, neighbors came out of their houses to pay their respects.
About 100 people had gathered, everyone masked and physically distant. They looked at the displays of photos propped up on tables and chairs. One of Pete’s signatures was the ubiquitous toothpick that he chewed on after he gave up his corncob pipe, so individually wrapped toothpicks were available by the handful. On Fridays he had brought muffins or donuts to the men working at his favorite garage, so everyone got homemade donuts — pumpkin, chocolate and apple, each in its own little baggy — made by the local orchard just a few yards down the road, which refused payment.
It was a service like any other and it was unique like every other: prayers said, songs sung, memories shared, stories told. Lots of laughs rang out and a few tears were shed. Pete was a Freemason and some of his Mason brothers honored him with their ceremony, as well.
I like writing obituaries and I wrote Pete’s, with a lot of help from his family, just like I wrote my stepfather’s a couple of years ago. In those old-fashioned days, Don Levitan’s sendoff could be held inside, and it was standing-room only, with prayers, memories, and a rousing singalong of “My Way” at the end.
Like Don, like each of my parents, I’ve moved often and been part of a couple of families. Fairly rootless, I’ve wondered over the years where I’d like my ashes thrown — Hudson Bay? Mt. Jefferson? A Vermont river? The Atlantic surf?
Today, thanks to Pete, I get to join a family that hasn’t moved, that lives near each other now and will be buried near each other then. There’s room for two cremation urns in my wife’s plot. I’ve joined the family tradition of watering the flowers on family graves — along with those of a few friends — and maybe if I’m lucky, it will still be going on after I’m gone. However it goes, I know I won’t be alone.
