The Story Where I Was Late to That Funeral

1. I think the purpose of life is for us to pre-sell tickets to our own funeral. Because nothing indicates what a great life you led more than a packed church, collectively mourning your passing. But I don't want to lower ticket prices just to fill seats.
2. This was the thought running through my head at my great-uncle's burial. Not because he had a big turnout. Quite the opposite.
3. The number of people standing on that wet grass was moderate, but the love they felt for this man was immense. And I decided that I wanted the same thing. Quality not quantity.
4. Uncle Bruce was an amazing man, and I loved him very much for that. It's rare for someone to be as close to their extended family as mine is. But I loved him as if he were much closer to me in my bloodline than he actually was.
5. My mom's mother, who I call Nana, came from a large family of 5 sisters and one brother. All the sisters married great men, who became intricate parts of our family.
6. I remember growing up and hearing stories when the sisters were younger and thinking how odd it sounded for the uncles to not be a part of them. In my mind, they had just always been there.
7. Uncle Bruce married the eldest of the Reese Sisters, Annie Gem...who I grew up referring to as Aunt Ann.
8. Well, to be fair, for about the first 10 years I was alive, I truly thought her actual name was Ann-Ann. I was shocked to find out that "Aunt" was a part of this moniker. Mainly because great aunts and uncles are usually so far removed from the lives of their great-nephews with the rare exceptions of family reunions or maybe a holiday here and there. I can't recall any of my friends telling stories about their great-aunta and uncles.
9. I spent the majority of my childhood sleeping over every Friday night with Aunt Ann and Uncle Bruce, and then every Saturday with Nana and my grandfather, Biggie.
10. (Actually, we called him Big Dad. His nickname derived from my sister's inabbility to comprehend two-word-names.)
11. It wasn't until my adulthood that I realized how special this situation was. I was never close with my biological father's parents. There was a lot of alcoholism on his side of the family, and my mother never felt comfortable with her children being exposed to that.
12. So Aunt Ann and Uncle Bruce truly became my second set of grandparents. I'd like to think that they felt this way about me as well. Their daughter Debbie didn't have her first child, Stewart, until a few years after I was born. So for a little while, I was the "collective grand-baby" of the family. I had no problem with this, since I was a hog for attention. I laid the show on thick for the family. I tried to be as entertaining as possible.
13. In the south, women played cards and gabbed about family, friends, politics or anything that struck up a good card-playing conversation. Most often, the Reese Sisters would play a game called Canasta, which seems to have been lost somewhere in the past 2 generations.
14. But I distinctly remember the women playing cards, and laughing and talking, and I wanted to be a part of this conversation. I climbed up in a chair at the table and pretended to be a part of this coffee-klatch. (I even think Aunt Ann handed me a couple of joker cards to hold onto so I could feel like I was "in the game.")
15. Not only was I determined to be involved in the card game, but in the conversation too.
16. It's weird how we remember the oddest details from our childhood. But I remember jumping into the conversation and telling a story trying to be as funny as everyone else.
17. I stopped.
18. I had no punch line. No hook.
19. The ladies all looked at me waiting patiently and adoringly. And I pulled from the only knowledge a 5 year old has, and made a "poop joke". I laughed hysterically at myself, and the women chuckled politely.
20. If you've read my stories, you'll notice that my bag of tricks never did get too full, because I rely on the "poop jokes" too much when I have nothing funny to say. Old habits die hard.
21. My mom called me and told me that Uncle Bruce had died Sunday morning. He had been in the hospital on life support and could not breathe on his own.
22. I could not even fathom this.
23. The Uncle Bruce that I knew was a spitfire. He had served in the military. He had the most colorful vocabulary of any man I had ever known as a child.
24. He was even strong enough to grab me by my ankle and flip me upside down once when I had choked on a hamburger. This man had saved my life, in a sense. And now, no one could save his.
25. I wasn't sure if I was going to make it to the funeral. It was in Houston on a Tuesday morning, and I lived in Dallas, 4 hours away, with a tight work schedule. I was waiting until the last minute to call my mom because of the fear of that disappointed silence preceding the calculated "Well, that's okay," that was sure to follow.
26. My assistant manager was confident that she could take care of things while I was gone and was encouraging me to spend some time with my family instead of using work as a distraction. So, we made some schedule changes and I was able to go.
27. The catch to all of this, was that I still had to work until midnight on Monday night, but I had to leave by 5am to make the trek to Houston in time. I was so fearful of the possibility of oversleeping and missing the funeral, that I decided to stay up all night and just drive on no sleep.
28. I'm not sure why this seemed like the more logical, adult decision, but at 1am, it made sense to me.
29. The drive was long and tedious, but early enough to be free from cluttered freeways.
30. The drive went smoothly until I actually got into town. Services were to be held at a church in the small town of Katy, TX. I spent part of my childhood in Katy, and was even baptized in the church to which I was traveling.
31. It was ironic to me to attend a memorial for someone's passing in the same location that I had been "reborn."
32. My step-dad, Neil, would tell me right now that I used the word "ironic" improperly.
33. When I was 11, my mom married Neil, who is a blessedly humorous guy, and at that point had never had any children of his own. So, he walked into marriage and fatherhood simultaneously; an admirable and foolish situation for any adult male.
34. But I'm glad he did it.
35. Soon after the vows were spoken, we moved as a family to Katy, where Neil had been promoted in his company. The downside was being farther away from Nana and Biggie. The silver lining was that Aunt Ann and Uncle Bruce had moved to that same area a few years before, and I was overjoyed at the chance to spend more time with them.
36. And I did. My sister and I would spend time at their house, attend family holidays, and even sleep over. I was a teenager, and these were the times when I was less of a cute, entertaining child.
37. I would rather have listened to my Walkman than hold joker cards at a dining table.
38. Honestly, during that time I should've spent more time around Aunt Ann than Uncle Bruce. And I realized that during the drive to his memorial.
39. I thought about all that time and how childish it was that I had wasted it. These were times that I could have created a stronger bond as well as memories that would be more valuable and vivid than the ones of my toddler years.
40. And I did not only deny myself these opprtunities, but I denied Uncle Bruce the same. I'm not sure I can forgive myself for that. But at least I was going to get my chance to say goodbye. And apologize to him for the lack of attention I gave him, after he had given me so much attention when I was a child.
41. I arrived inside Katy city limits, and drove down Katy Hockley Street towards the church. I was almost there, and barely had 2 minutes to spare until the services began. I was going to make it.
42. It's at this point I should note that there are TWO streets called "Katy Hockley," and they run parallel to one another.
43. One took you to the church.
44. The other took me to wherever it was that I ended up.
45. I drove around and circled back, and tried the other Katy Hockley, but got nervous, so I started over and retraced my steps.
46. And as I did this, my emotions became a jumbled mess, a message written in code, and it was going to crack me before I could crack it.
47. I pulled up into the church parking lot and looked at the clock.
48. 10:28
49. After everything this man had done for me, I couldn't even get there on time to say good-bye.
50. I walked in and approached the door to enter the sanctuary. But they were rolling the casket, draped in an American Flag, up the aisle towards the exit where I was standing. I stepped back to the outskirts of the foyer, and let the processional continue without interruption from me.
51. And I noticed that the family were the first to follow the casket. I can still, to this day, see the image of my Aunt Ann, being held up by her sisters, as she tries to walk, but can barely raise her head, They are simultaneously keeping her off the ground and guiding her forward.
52. I was moved.
53. That's the true function of this unconditional love that family has for one another; to keep us up and guide us forward.
54. Other family members began to exit the auditorium as well, and they started to notice me. It was so nice to see them, but at the same time, completely humiliating to be so obviously tardy.
55. One by one they walked over and hugged me. After Nana hugged me, she urged me to go hug my Aunt Ann. I looked over, and saw this quivering, broken woman who had just lost the man she'd been married to for longer than I've been alive, and I did not feel like this was the time for me to say hello. But Nana insisted, so I did.
56. I hugged her. And I was overcome by torrential emotions, and desperately fighting for the right words to say. But all I could say was
57. "I'm so sorry."
58. After a moment, my Aunt Ann looked at me and said,
59. "But Jeremy, did you see him? Oh, you didn't! Jeremy, you didn't get to see him!"
60. I felt my heart fall backwards into my chest and rattle my spine. I had upset her more. I was making it worse.
61. I looked at her and told her that I was glad, because I want to remember Uncle Bruce the way I last saw him, which was alive and rowdy.
62. It's true. The last time I saw him was at Christmas. The entire family had gotten together in Houston at my great Aunt Susie's ranch. There were a total of around 40 family members, all opening presents in a sandstorm of shiny red and green wrapping paper.
63. I spent the night and had lunch with everyone the next day. Before I drove back to Dallas, I stopped by Uncle Bruce's house to say good-bye. He was confined to a recliner, which he didn't appear to have much objection to. His skin had paled from the shade I remembered it being as a child. I'm not positive that it's entirely true. But for some reason, my childhood memories of him are of him being a little tanned.
64. I told him I was leaving and gave him a big hug. He was cracking jokes, talking about the ladies on tv, or something else that might have made more than one Reese Sister smack him with a newspaper.
65. And that's my last memory of Uncle Bruce.
66. And I love that.
67. The best thing about honoring Uncle Bruce's life, is that it's the most vivid memory I have. I will always remember him as that 83 year-old spitfire. Strokes and surgeries couldn't keep him from cracking a joke.
68. As I walked towards the church at 10:28 that morning, I was so unsure of how to handle myself. I was nervous. Anxious. I felt so heavy.
69. Two cops were leaning up against the hearse, talking. Telling a story or a joke. And laughing. They looked up and saw me walking towards them, with rain turning my red dress-shirt into a sloppy burgundy. They immediately stiffened up and put on their game faces, which turned out to be a rigid, tightened, somber, funeral-appropriate smile.
70. It amused me that these two guys had been joking around, and then immediately stiffened when I approached.
71. I understood. It was out of respect.
72. But what amused me, is that they stopped living their lives for a brief moment. And that's the opposite of what we should do. It's the opposite of what Uncle Bruce would have done. So I looked at the cops, smirked and said,
73. "So, did I miss all the good stuff, or just the previews?"
74. It took them a second, but the cops smiled and laughed a little. I returned the laugh, and kept walking towards the door.
75. I smiled.
76. That's what Uncle Bruce would have done. He would have kept the jokes going. He would have wanted life to continue.
77. So when I hugged my Aunt Ann, I knew exactly what images of Uncle Bruce I was referring to.
78. I think that Uncle Bruce was a smart guy, and not just a smart-ass. He lived loud and loved hard. He was tough. And honest. And he lived every available minute of his life to it's fullest capacity.
79. Looking back, I think all Uncle Bruce wanted for me was to live my life out loud. Be passionate. Love our family. Speak your heart. And I think I've done that.
80. So maybe he never saw my teen years as missed opportunities or lost time with me. Maybe he thought his work was done.
81. And I'm sure that his soul is out there, and knows now how much he impacted my life. Maybe it doesn't matter if we don't tell people those kinds of things before they die, because afterwards, they know all of it.
82. Those tears that my Aunt Ann sobbed in the church foyer spoke of her lifetime adoration of this man more than any words she ever possibly formulated while he was alive. And he wasn't here to see it. But I believe in my heart that once his body died, his spirit knew all of those things we felt for him...never said...couldn't say to him.
83. In my reality, there are no missed "I love you's." You just get a lump sum at the end.
84. It may be a bit of a rose-colored glasses theory, but it's what I think. Mainly because in my theory, he knows I didn't mean to be late.
85. And he knows all the wise-cracks I would have said to him over the years. And I bet he is laughing harder than he ever did on earth.
86. Because that's how I remember him.
87. Laughing.