Sunday, March 24, 2013

Observations on a road trip to a memorial service. (In the category of Be Where You Are.)

We counted 65 Cracker Barrel signs that could be spotted from the car between home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and Chattanooga, Tennessee, where Dad died. They collectively advertise the presence of only 12 restaurants. It's a noteworthy branding strategy, but we stopped at none of them. We plan to count Waffle House signage on the way home.

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It's been a weird day, coming back here one week later. My brain is slipping in and out. One moment, zero thoughts, just one low g-chord,  The next moment a million thoughts all at once, immediately followed by that sick feeling I get when I'm sure I have forgotten something really important. I can go for a few hours now, acting like I know exactly what I'm doing. But yesterday I found myself putting the butter in the microwave instead of the refrigerator. This morning I scrubbed my feet with shampoo and lathered my hair in body wash. I didn't even notice until I reached for the conditioner.  Tomorrow I have to go to a memorial service. None of it is right.

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I woke up feeling angry. I'm relieved to feel again, but it's an awkward day for anger. I have many strangers to meet for the first and last time. They will all tell me how wonderful Dad was; they will be very kind.



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"I've been the rector here at Grace for three years now," she said, "and this is only the second time the entire choir has agreed to sing at a memorial service. It speaks volumes about how much your father meant to this church..." she giggled slightly, "or should I say sings?"

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Everywhere I looked papers lay scattered about, on the floor, on the couch, on the desk, the bureau, the nightstand. All of it was sheet music.


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Angels live on top of Lookout Mountain. They See Rock City every day, or the parking lot anyway, as they turn onto their street. They welcome strays into their stunning home, feed them, weave them into their household, another strand to complete the brilliant multicolored tapestry of their life well lived. For five years they wove my father into their life, at Christmas and Easter, Sundays, whenever. They will now weave in his poor, sweet, scared cat; the strand continues, unbroken. They are the answer to my most fervent prayer.

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We counted only 43 Waffle House signs between Chattanooga, Tennessee, where Dad died, and my home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. They, too, advertise the presence of only 12 restaurants. We stopped at none of them but headed straight for home.  

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