How do you explain summertime humidity in the South to someone who has never experienced it? I know greater writers than me have tried. It's like the air is so heavy you can feel it weighing down on you. We very often end up having late afternoon thunderstorms that feel completely inevitable. We're having one right now, and it feels like a fitting end to the last 48 hours.
My mom, dad and I headed to L.A. (Lower Alabama) on Wednesday afternoon in the middle of an early summer heat wave for Uncle Robert's services. Along with his mother and brothers (and technically a sister, but I try to marginalize her as much as possible), Uncle Robert left a wife, a grown son and a 16 year old daughter behind. My family is always high drama, but as one of my aunts observed tonight, funerals really bring out our best--drama that is.
If I were David Sedaris, I could tell you about how my 16 year old cousin with developmental delays chose to dress her father for burial and it would be funny. The story of my cousin who has been excommunicated from his mother's life (but not the rest of our lives) bringing his girlfriend who chewed gum and examined her belly button ring during the service would bring an out-loud chuckle. I could accurately describe my Southern Baptist cousin's face when she realized we were going to say the Hail Mary 50 times while praying the Rosary. Or maybe I could explain why we all held our breath when the aforementioned marginalized, excommunicating aunt stood up to speak at the service and why I snorted when she said she was speaking for her brothers. If I had talent, I could do all of this while still portraying how incredibly sad the whole situation was.
But, in spite of my southern roots and our proud literary history, I just don't know how to accurately convey the unbearable sorrow of my cousin's primal cries at the graveside or how that sorrow was tempered by the levity of the two largest floral arrangements being University of Alabama tributes complete with a little bear declaring that God blessed the Crimson Tide. There's really no way to explain how incredibly sad it was to see my big teddy bears of uncles and Daddy trying to figure out how to walk away and leave their brother there in the ground or to explain their excitement at seeing their former Pony League coach--Tiny. I can't vividly describe my great-aunt Margie,the epitome of a Steel Magnolia,who at 77 sat on the floor and played with my three month old cousin and helped her big sister bury her son without shedding one tear--until we were processing out at which point she discreetly buried her head in her own daughter's shoulder only after my grandmother had passed her by.
We ended the day as all southerners do--surrounded by food prepared by a Sunday School class. Of course, this time it was served in a volunteer fire department--it was for my family. And when it comes to funerals, we really know how to bring it.
The rain lasted about 10 minutes. And like most summer rains, it didn't really bring any lasting relief from the heavy air. But, it did give us just a moment of balance.
My mom, dad and I headed to L.A. (Lower Alabama) on Wednesday afternoon in the middle of an early summer heat wave for Uncle Robert's services. Along with his mother and brothers (and technically a sister, but I try to marginalize her as much as possible), Uncle Robert left a wife, a grown son and a 16 year old daughter behind. My family is always high drama, but as one of my aunts observed tonight, funerals really bring out our best--drama that is.
If I were David Sedaris, I could tell you about how my 16 year old cousin with developmental delays chose to dress her father for burial and it would be funny. The story of my cousin who has been excommunicated from his mother's life (but not the rest of our lives) bringing his girlfriend who chewed gum and examined her belly button ring during the service would bring an out-loud chuckle. I could accurately describe my Southern Baptist cousin's face when she realized we were going to say the Hail Mary 50 times while praying the Rosary. Or maybe I could explain why we all held our breath when the aforementioned marginalized, excommunicating aunt stood up to speak at the service and why I snorted when she said she was speaking for her brothers. If I had talent, I could do all of this while still portraying how incredibly sad the whole situation was.
But, in spite of my southern roots and our proud literary history, I just don't know how to accurately convey the unbearable sorrow of my cousin's primal cries at the graveside or how that sorrow was tempered by the levity of the two largest floral arrangements being University of Alabama tributes complete with a little bear declaring that God blessed the Crimson Tide. There's really no way to explain how incredibly sad it was to see my big teddy bears of uncles and Daddy trying to figure out how to walk away and leave their brother there in the ground or to explain their excitement at seeing their former Pony League coach--Tiny. I can't vividly describe my great-aunt Margie,the epitome of a Steel Magnolia,who at 77 sat on the floor and played with my three month old cousin and helped her big sister bury her son without shedding one tear--until we were processing out at which point she discreetly buried her head in her own daughter's shoulder only after my grandmother had passed her by.
We ended the day as all southerners do--surrounded by food prepared by a Sunday School class. Of course, this time it was served in a volunteer fire department--it was for my family. And when it comes to funerals, we really know how to bring it.
The rain lasted about 10 minutes. And like most summer rains, it didn't really bring any lasting relief from the heavy air. But, it did give us just a moment of balance.
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