There are those who will not enjoy this tale. You'll get over it. Death is as much a part of life as is birth. It might be wise to start preparing for it long before we do, but we don't.
My view of death was formed at a very young age by having picnics in the cemetery. While even then I knew that our "people" were not actually there, I still felt the presence of them as we spent many hours there decorating the graves, wandering about reading the headstones of the town folk and most of all talking about bygone years. I went there with my grandmother and grandfather. Grandma would pack a lunch for our outing and we would climb into the old Packard and head up to the graves. My cousin Butch and I in the back seat, very happy at the prospect of returning to this very special place and Grandma and Grandpa in the front. Once there, the work and the stories would begin. We were allowed to do some of the simple things but mostly we listened. Often we heard the same stories and would try to be first to fill in the gaps. We wandered all around this wondrous place. Whenever we found a headstone of a friend's family member we made mental notes of it so we could return there. Even as such young children we knew how to respect the graves. We did minor maintenance on them and went about tidying up the unkempt ones. While Grandma and Grandpa planted flowers and such, we went and fetched water from the fountain for the plants. The picnic would be eaten and we would venture opinions on the best looking graves and our favorite headstones. Mine was the petrified log with the scroll in the middle of it. It is still my favorite. We also wondered where in this wonderful place we would be buried when our time on earth had come to an end. Butch and I picked about the same area because we never wanted to be far from each other.
Because of the picnics in the cemetery, I am able to cope with death as I do today. All things in life prepare you for the rest of your life. Little did I know at that time in my childhood that very soon I would be surrounded by death; in my family and then at dialysis where so often there sits an empty chair where just two days before a dear friend had, unknown to any of us, sat there for the last time. I celebrate death as I do life. It is nothing to fear. We will miss those we leave behind but our journey has only begun. Our spirits will go on forever. Not everyone need believe this, but it is an integral part of who I am and why I think as I do. There are those in my life who have also been surrounded by horrific pain and death. My wish is that I could some how ease that pain and give them assurance that the spirit lives on. The bodies are but shells that hold us. When we get there we'll be there my friends. The journey will be over and what will count is the love we have shown to others, the forgiveness, and the compassion toward our fellow travelers.
Update 2006 ------- the year we went to faux flowers for many reasons.
Grandpa was the first of the immediate family to pass out of the picture. My father and I had just moved to Florida; a month later Grandpa was gone. I was his only grand-daughter.
He died in June of 1959.
My aunt Jean was next. She passed on the first day of spring, March 20th, 1969. My daughter was just six weeks old. Louie followed in 1974. Their grandchildren, Marty and Tricia, were a year and a half and only four months old when Jean died unexpectedly. She loved them so much.
Oh, my mother, you will never know what you missed. Three months and eleven days after her sister, Jean passed away, my mother joined her after going through a terrible illness. She was only 49 years old and her only grand-daughter was almost 5 months old. Ginny never wanted to get old; she got her wish. I wish I had known then, what I know now.
Butch's death was a shock, even though he had fought the cancer battle for quite some time. On Father's Day, June 20th 1975 he was having yet another operation when it happened. He was 33 years old and left a wife and three beautiful girls behind. The girls grew up to be lovely women. He now has 5 grand children. Curtis, Ashley, Devyn, Taylor and Dylan.
No one should ever have to bury their child. Carol survived almost eleven years after daughter Tricia was killed in a terrible car accident on April 29, 1978. They are buried side by side. Our hearts broke for Dick, Carol and Marty. There was nothing we could do but cry with them.
Carol Ann Trippi married Richard Provino on July 28th 1962. It was a big wedding, one of those where there is a breakfast for the wedding party, a huge church wedding, a dinner for the wedding party and families and then a reception for most of the town. It was quite a day. Now, all who remain are Dick and son Marty with his wife Beth and children Joelle and Etahn. I wish Carol could have known her grandchildren.
Bill and Ann; Butch's parents; my uncle and aunt. She went first, on Dec. 1st in 1979 if I remember correctly. Bill died just before Carol in Feb. of 1989. None of these years were good years. Our small family kept getting smaller.
"Old Grandma" is how she was identified by Butch's kids who had three grandmothers to sort out. She was their Great Grandmother but she was Grandma to all of us. She lived to be 88, just a little too long to die at peace but not long enough to see what her great grandchildren grew up to be in life. She lived the last five years with us and I wish that I'd spent more time having a cup of tea with her or appreciating her wisdom. We miss you Gram.
Pat came to my house one morning to store her Christmas decorations and that's the last time I saw her alive. No one could have guessed that this healthy looking woman could leave us while so young. She was my aunt by marriage but my friend just because she was. We shared a lot of laughter and tears as well. She left two sons, Dan and Gary. She never met Gary's son Shawn. That's a shame. He would have been the apple of her eye.
One day, I'd like to move my mother up on this hill with Grandma, Butch, Bill and Ann. I thought I'd be buried up here as well, but now have decided not to be buried anywhere. Instead, my ashes will be thrown over (or into) Conesus Lake where I spent the happiest days of my childhood. (I was testing the spot next to Grandma in this picture below, holding the water bottle, in case I should get thirsty.)
