I didn’t start writing this post with the intention of blogging my Grandmother’s funeral. I was not sitting in the funeral home, mentally spinning the proceedings into blog fodder. And I’m fully aware of how tacky it may seem to journalize a funeral alongside a movie review of The Watchmen. But… why is that? Is it for the same reason that nobody whips out their digital camera during the ceremony and takes pictures of the deceased… because to infuse the situation with new media is inappropriate? Well, it’s not like I was live-blogging, or sending out tweets via Twitter, or trying to think of a tactful Facebook status. It’s just that today, when I sat down to write, this is what came out…
We left Boston at 3:30am on Friday morning, bound for Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The mood in the car was groggy but determined to make it to the funeral starting at 9:30am. Mr. P drove while I dozed and stared out the window at the dark highway. Across the median, hundreds of semi-trailer trucks rambled towards Boston in a steady stream of glaring headlights and side markers. Daylight broke just as we approached the Tappan Zee Bridge, and though the road thickened with commuters, we never broke our 70 mph pace. We stopped for a break just after crossing the PA border and got coffee and Tastykakes from a vending machine, which we ate on a bench in our funereal attire. By 10am, we were in Lancaster, cruising around cozy streets of row homes.
We located the funeral home and arrived at the viewing. The room was crowded with family, friends, old neighbors, members of her church. There were hugs and sad smiles. The open casket beckoned at the front of the room, but the need to see Grandma one last time could not completely overcome my squeamishness about dead bodies. Finally my mother lead me over to the coffin, and I peered at Grandma. Her wrinkles were gone and her face looked serene and content. It was both reassuring and terrifying.
Some things that one does not overhear at the funeral of a 98-year old woman: “She was so young.” “She had so much life.” “It was too soon.” “What was the cause of death?”
The ceremony started with the pastor declaring that it would not be a somber service, but rather a celebration of Anna Kraft’s life. He spoke of her family, her husband, her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, and her great-great grandchild, a one-month old baby girl who I happened to be sitting behind and whose gentle cooing calmed me immensely.
My mother and uncle offered eulogies. As they spoke lovingly of their mother, it dawned on me that we were saying goodbye to the family’s matriarch. She had been a constant presence in our lives and had devoted her life to us, her family. The memories that we all had of her were of everyday happenings in the domestic sphere — a great pie, a stack of presents under the Christmas tree, a warm hug. But the sum of these trivial events, well, that’s a Grandma.
After the burial service, there was a luncheon in the reception room of a nearby hotel. The Pennsylvania Dutch menu gave me pause: It was cold cuts with kaiser rolls and horseradish, potato salad, cole slaw, and potato chips, a selection that revived memories of informal Christmas dinners at Grandma Kraft’s house. My appetite was dampened with grief, but I ate. I ate a sandwich and then two pieces of cake, because that’s what Grandma would have wanted.
