Three Rakes
My father's father, Albert, died when I was in elementary school. Like with my 87-year-old dad, who passed away Jan. 13, it was a stroke and its wicked complications.
Albert was only 72, I think. On the day he died, I remember coming into the house and seeing my dad sitting in a chair, head hung low, sad but not in tears.
Then, in silence, we went out to the front yard and started raking. I've never fully understood why, but I'll never forget it. There wasn't much to rake, but we did it anyway, with little more than the sound of rake on grass. I remember the weight of sadness in the air.
We created a few piles of mostly dead grass and began stuffing it all into a lawn bag. I doubt we needed more than one bag.
At one point, I broke the silence by asking if I could go with him to New York to help take care of funeral arrangements. He said he appreciated the gesture, but it was probably best if he went alone.
I must have been in fourth or fifth grade. Thinking back, and having two sons of my own now, I wish he would have taken me, but I understand his reasons for not doing so.
On Friday, we buried my father at the veterans cemetery in Houston. I played "Taps" on my trumpet. VFW members fired guns and gave stirring messages. One of them handed my mom a bag full of spent shells. Another gave her a folded American flag.
But what got me the most was the VFW member who walked up and shook my hand, and in his hand was something cold and metallic. He was giving it to me but didn't want anyone to see it.
It was one of the spent shells.
I don't know whether he gave it to me because I played "Taps," which veterans funeral services folks told me no loved one had been able to do before, or because I was a first-born son.
Either way, it put a cannon ball in my throat and tear in my eye.
We left the cemetery and drove my mother home. There, I grabbed two decades-old rakes out of the garage and crammed them in the back of my car before loading up the family and heading home.
Later that afternoon, I choked back tears as I sat my sons down in the garage and told them what my father and I did on the day Albert Pearson died. Then we gathered up the old rakes, plus one I already had, and went into the back yard.
The raking, however, didn't turn out like it did with my father.
First off, the giant inflatable Moon Bounce arrived for my son's birthday party the next day. When having to choose between Moon Bounce and raking, you'd think there really wasn't much competition in a boy's mind.
Nevertheless, after taking the apparatus for some test bounces, they soon exited the thing, picked up the old rakes and joined me.
My boys are far younger than I was when my grandfather died, and there was a heck of a lot more leaves to rake.
There wasn't much silence, either.
Instead, it was the sound of innocence, laughing, happiness, goofing around and a little hard work. We raked up a leaf pile the size of an SUV and muscled it into the burn pit.
It filled my heart with pride and joy.
I would like to believe that this is how my father would have wanted it.
Albert was only 72, I think. On the day he died, I remember coming into the house and seeing my dad sitting in a chair, head hung low, sad but not in tears.
Then, in silence, we went out to the front yard and started raking. I've never fully understood why, but I'll never forget it. There wasn't much to rake, but we did it anyway, with little more than the sound of rake on grass. I remember the weight of sadness in the air.
We created a few piles of mostly dead grass and began stuffing it all into a lawn bag. I doubt we needed more than one bag.
At one point, I broke the silence by asking if I could go with him to New York to help take care of funeral arrangements. He said he appreciated the gesture, but it was probably best if he went alone.
I must have been in fourth or fifth grade. Thinking back, and having two sons of my own now, I wish he would have taken me, but I understand his reasons for not doing so.
On Friday, we buried my father at the veterans cemetery in Houston. I played "Taps" on my trumpet. VFW members fired guns and gave stirring messages. One of them handed my mom a bag full of spent shells. Another gave her a folded American flag.
But what got me the most was the VFW member who walked up and shook my hand, and in his hand was something cold and metallic. He was giving it to me but didn't want anyone to see it.
It was one of the spent shells.
I don't know whether he gave it to me because I played "Taps," which veterans funeral services folks told me no loved one had been able to do before, or because I was a first-born son.
Either way, it put a cannon ball in my throat and tear in my eye.
We left the cemetery and drove my mother home. There, I grabbed two decades-old rakes out of the garage and crammed them in the back of my car before loading up the family and heading home.
Later that afternoon, I choked back tears as I sat my sons down in the garage and told them what my father and I did on the day Albert Pearson died. Then we gathered up the old rakes, plus one I already had, and went into the back yard.
The raking, however, didn't turn out like it did with my father.
First off, the giant inflatable Moon Bounce arrived for my son's birthday party the next day. When having to choose between Moon Bounce and raking, you'd think there really wasn't much competition in a boy's mind.
Nevertheless, after taking the apparatus for some test bounces, they soon exited the thing, picked up the old rakes and joined me.
My boys are far younger than I was when my grandfather died, and there was a heck of a lot more leaves to rake.
There wasn't much silence, either.
Instead, it was the sound of innocence, laughing, happiness, goofing around and a little hard work. We raked up a leaf pile the size of an SUV and muscled it into the burn pit.
It filled my heart with pride and joy.
I would like to believe that this is how my father would have wanted it.
posted by Brian Pearson at 10:15 AM
4 Comments:
Im sure he would have..
I've long admired your wordsmithing abilities and have recommended your blog to literally hundreds of friends.
This was a moving tribute. I recently lost a parent, and I could easily relate to your emotions.
God bless you and your family in your needs, and please know you are not alone.
What a beautiful and fitting tribute!
You have my sympathy on your dad's passing.
My uncle died 17 years ago; he had asked long before that if I would play taps at his gravesite and so I did.
I told Mom that day I could never play taps again for someone I knew.
My brother (Navy) died in 2003 unexpectedly; there was no way I could have been emotionally able to do that. My dad (Army) passed away in 2005. I was so relieved he had already given me his blessing to not try to play; I know I never could have made it.
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