Jamin looked up from the pile of taxes at his desk a few weeks ago, a little {unlike his usual demeanor} annoyed.
“When are we going to get rid of that thing?” he sighed, gesturing at the monstrosity before him, sitting beside the latest lego creation the boys had left on display.
I think it was the taxes.
That ‘thing’, is Aiden’s science experiment from school. It’s a habitat of sorts, this weird conjoining of old soda bottles. A project with his group at school, the teacher announced one day that they could take one home with their parent’s permission. However, there weren’t enough for each child, so it was a first come, first serve kind of thing.
Being the suckers that we are, we told him yes, and I think he practically ran from the car that morning with his permission slip. He was the first to arrive and had the pick of the litter. He chose his own group’s, even though the bottles were a little crooked. I think he was partial to his own habitat.
Teeming with life, it had grasshoppers and roly polies on the top, and snails and fish on the bottom. The idea is that in the habitat, the little things stay alive, to the best of their lifespan, anyway. They don’t need anything else.
The kids watched them dutifully, at first, commenting on the fish and insects and the process. Aiden noting all the cool things he’d learned in class.
That was November.
It was early April when Jamin, working on those taxes, looked up at a big crooked silhouette in the window – and he was understandably, annoyed.
I’m pretty sure now there were about two snails left, and two fish. But every time I went to check and see if there’s anything, I discovered something else in the habitat. Something else appeared. Did they cover spontaneous generation in class? Because I’m starting to wonder…
And the little fish just swam around and around.
And around.
And around.
There’s something about the traditions in southern funerals that are all the same.
Something familiar.
It’s a rule in life. A comfortable universality that’s slowly fading with a few generations before us.
The country drive with cracks on the pavement, in the south it’s usually hot with the exception of a few months out of the year. There’s that ever-present water mirage that seems to clear up before you ever get there, consistently for the drive on those long back roads. Big trees and fields and cattle that roll by with people actually sitting on front porches that seem to greet you on the way.
It’s something we left behind with the progression of time. A lost comfort.
There’s the small, unkept parking lot at the funeral home when you pull in. The smell inside always has an odd scent. It’s not terrible but not comforting, either. Foreign, really – a mixture of perfume and flowers a few mystery scents. The people inside wear their Sunday afternoon best, some in jeans and others in cowboy boots, some in full tailored suits. You lose count of the hugs. You end up finding those you’re the most familiar with on that side of the family, gravitating to them.
I’ve always laughed when I’m not supposed to. Usually, it’s to keep myself from crying, particularly when I’ve cried quite enough in my book. So I remember that I tend to avoid eye contact, especially with my siblings. We fidget with our hands, and then stare at the stained glass, instead.
At the graveyard, there’s the small crumbling gravestones on the side where people have dutifully placed flowers every Mother’s Day or Father’s Day or anniversary. Another tradition I’ve never seemed to understand, if you really think about it. But a nod of respect. Or acknowledgement. In remembrance. Something that brings comfort to the left-behind.
Then, there are rows and rows and rows of food. I think some people have wakes and others have toasts in bars. In the south, after the funeral, you eat. With green bean casseroles, macaroni and cheese, sweet tea, and Frito Pie. I still don’t think I know what Frito pie is, but it’s the food that we seem to gravitate around.
Like a healing balm, there’s something about comfort food, and their well-meaning makers that appear in droves.
But in between the actual service with the different smells with the array of hugs and some songs we grew up singing and haven’t heard in a very long time, and the graveyard and potluck part with Frito pie, there’s the actual funeral procession.
I’m telling you this because usually, if this part is included in the service, it’s the family and then anyone else that wants to follow. On the way to the actual graveyard.
And this is the part that always gets me.
Because riding behind the hearse, on the way to the graveyard in that funeral processional, the other traffic stops. It’s something particularly of note in the small country roads.
I’d never noticed this before my grandmother’s funeral. I was in college, riding with my family, and car after car, people pulled over. Men removed their hats and held them to their chest, heads bowed. They sat in respect while the family passed by.
They stopped their cars for a perfect stranger. They bowed their heads for someone they didn’t know. I remember we were so thrown by our loss… The idea of other people stopping on the road and bowing their heads was the nicest thing a complete stranger that I would never see again, could do.
It left such an impression.
So a few weeks ago, with Jamin’s family on our way to bury his grandfather, it happened again. A man took his hat off right where he sat on his front porch while the cars passed by. He bowed his head. Car after car pulled over on the road and stopped. Heads were bowed and hats were removed.
There was a sudden tightness in my chest. This part… where people stop to show their respect and acknowledgment of a lost life, always takes my breath away.
There’s just something about visiting your roots. Even if they’re been long transplanted.
We’re like those fish in that soda bottle. Swimming round and round in our little habitats, we forget what was built for us, before we arrived. We forget why we’re here.
The legacy left for us. The choices that were made in the generations before us, that led us to where we are now. A ripple effect: Who knows where we would be? Do we really ever stop to think about it?
We get caught up in life, and swim in circles.
Then there’s something about death, that always makes us stop.
We drove to the local creek the other day. There’s a pretty one near our house, and we took the kids. The upper half of the soda bottle that once held a grasshopper/roly poly family is long gone and getting a little icky. So it felt good to gently tip the lower half of the bottle after it was cut open to free those little fish and snails that were left.
Maybe those fish and snails would have been happy for the rest of their lives in that soda bottle.
Maybe they’re oblivious, just swimming in circles.
Maybe we’re crazy to take the time and free two fish and two snails.
Maybe not.
The water is warmer, and we’re not sure about the correct procedure of freeing fish from habitats, because we’re just two parents fumbling through life, after all.
But for some reason, it felt right to give everything left in that awkward little bottle, a fair chance.
Maybe fish have their own version of frito pie and pausing at funerals. Maybe they celebrate, and do a little dance when they’re happy.
Probably definitely not.
But it felt good to pause and remember why we’re here. To give things a fresh start. To hand down a legacy to our own children so that they can remember where they came from. We want to cultivate a season of gratefulness for it, in the journey forward. We hope one day they look back, and they never forget their roots.
And if anything we hope they never feel stuck, swimming in circles.
Jenna says
I love this – thank you for sharing. Such great perspective. Sorry for loss.
Alexa says
THIs is beautiful
Anna says
Beautifully said
Rhonda says
This was a lovely post. Reminded me of my grandparents’ funerals in Kentucky, where I was born long ago. Very moving.
R.A. says
Very timely post–so sad that we as Americans somehow cannot grasp this wonderful truth that you have written about so beautifully. It made be think of the America that I once knew not so long ago.
Ardith says
Beautiful, touching words and insightful observations
Mel says
This post reminds me so much of my grandfather. He was an assistant fire chief, and on the way to cemetery, the funeral procession passed by two of the city’s fire stations. Though he’d retired at least two decades before he passed away, the engines were out front, and the firefighters were out front standing in respect for him. I will never forget that.
ashley @ the handmade home says
That is so sweet, Mel. I LOVE that.
Oma says
Brings back memories of the funeral processions I’ve been a part of–and of the respect others showed. I wonder if they still do this in Georgia.