by Marla J. Noel

I appreciate what Ian Crockett wrote in his posting for this blog. In old postings, I have shared with you my funeral wishes. What I haven’t shared is something that was very painful for me; an experience which helped me realize the importance of funerals.
When I came to California in my early twenties, I moved in with my Grandmother in Leisure World. This was clearly against Leisure World rules. My Grandmother was very nervous that she would be evicted for having some under-aged person living with her. However, I could tell that my Grandmother enjoyed my company. I had grown up so far away from her; this was a great way to get to know her. We talked about her childhood in Montana, what her parents were like, and what her life had been like as a mother of two. We got to know each other fairly quickly and I learned that Grandma and I shared a sweet tooth. I made sure that we were always stocked with root beer and ice cream for root beer floats, my Grandmother’s favorite. She appreciated our mobility and avoided giving me too hard a time about my driving. I am sure that I gave her more than one scare, when rounding a corner on two wheels. I lived with Grandmother for about six months. We had a good time getting to know each other, and I saw a great deal of my mother in my Grandmother.
As my Grandmother aged, my uncle moved her from her own condo to an assisted living home, where she lived her last few years. She was still close enough for me to visit her regularly and take her out for a root beer float or a piece of pie. When I got the call that Grandmother had died, I remember not being able to cry. I was sad, and a part of me did not believe she was dead. There was no service. My family didn’t do services. Services aren’t practical. Too much fuss, wasn’t what she wanted.
On a bright sunny day, three months later, I looked into the sky and saw a white fluffy cloud float in front of the sun. It looked as though the cloud had a lining. I thought of my Grandmother, and began to cry. I wasn’t alone. I was with some friends on a weekend doing something fun. My crying was not at all appropriate, was very unexpected, and I couldn’t help myself. I can tear up, just thinking about this time in my life. This may be one of those losses I haven’t processed very well. I guess, in retrospect, it is a loss that I haven’t processed. My Grandmother died more than 18 years ago. Now, when I talk to my parents about their service, they say the same thing, not practical, too much fuss, too much bother. I remind them that the service is not for them, but for all of us that they left behind. Then my mother starts to cry.