Mom has been staying at her cousin Connie's, whose home, like my late Aunt Phyllis' CT home, is not air-conditioned. (Connie and my uncle were close. He probably ate at her home weekly and on holidays and since giving up his car, she had driven him to appointments, etc. In theory, it's a 6-hour drive. I took off early Friday, and although I had my Garmin with me, I thought I knew the directions and also had a hardcopy, but must have missed the turn for the New Jersey Turnpike after the Delaware memorial bridge and somehow found myself in Pennsylvania. I did not recognize the loop, which seemed well-paved. Finally I noticed the Pennsylvania route symbols and went off the next exit to turn around. Within a few exits I saw a New Jersey turnpike symbol and followed the signs. (I was relieved: I had hoped I didn't have to go back over the bridge.) I decided to stop at a Wawa about 3 miles west of the turnpike for a restroom break. (Wawa is a gas station/convenience store chain.) Wawa's is a delight; they also have some of those consolidated soda fountains where I could tap a 32-ounce flavored Diet Dr. Pepper for $1 (plus tax), a super value. I turned on my Garmin. (The Garmin still has annoying usability issues. For example, neither my Somerset hotel nor the church for the funeral mass nor the restaurant (for the post-Mass luncheon) were available in the search engine, so I had to get street addresses.)
The drawback on the mostly I-95 drive is driving through New York City, which is slow, local drivers are super-aggressive, and you constantly have to worry over being in the right lane, as I-95 in places is reduced to a single lane of traffic. Not to mention the multiple tolls including $15 at the George Washington bridge. It's a fairly easy drive the rest of the way except for some hot spots in Connecticut. (It was even worse on the way back as the delays added nearly an additional hour to the trip.) The hell of driving through New York City is not just my impression. My brother-in-law from Texas (who has avoided flying since his years in the telecommunications corporate world) was driving my sister (#2) maybe an hour or 2 behind me and is already plotting a drive home that avoids NYC.
My middle brother was maybe an hour behind me, driving from his Boston flight destination. He had been chosen to deliver the family eulogy. I have to say I was somewhat disappointed being the oldest and with exceptional writing and speaking skills. I don't know if it was his or my mom's (and/or siblings') decision. It really didn't matter; the funeral mass was not about me/
I usually lose my appetite while driving. I hadn't eaten since maybe 5 AM. When I got to Connie's, they were having some leftover pizza, including some charice (Portuguese sausage) topping. If you've read my nutrition blog, you know that I've had a weight issue and I've been probably lower-carb since 2003. (I met a fellow DBA in 2002 who swore by the lifestyle.) Pizza is generally a no-no, but I relax my diet on travel and had a couple of slices.
My brother started fleshing out the eulogy he had been working on. I became somewhat of a critic. Was it a matter of jealousy? I don't think so; maybe it's a college professor or writer in me: write for your audience. Most of the people attending the funeral would be people who had worked with or were parishioners with Uncle Roger for several of his 59 years in service to the priesthood. What could we tell them of the beloved brother and uncle? He was almost impossible to see as we constantly moved as an Air Force family and my folks retired from the military in Texas. I went to visit him when he was a pastor at Edgartown (Martha's Vineyard). I also joined my folks on one of their annual trek home to visit the relatives. Uncle Roger occasionally visited and celebrated his golden anniversary of ordination at my folks' home parish. He would never forget our birthdays; he occasionally wrote, although writing wasn't his favorite thing.
I laughed as my brother (correctly) noted Grandfather, Mom and I loved a good argument but Uncle Roger would refuse to take the bait. Oh, it didn't mean he didn't have a definite point of view. But it was just enough to give his point of view; he despised having to repeat himself. And he could be stubborn in his point of view: he wanted nothing to do with personal computing. Even though my Mom has been online for years and email is an easy way to keep in touch, Uncle Roger wasn't interested. I wanted to buy him a PC, even over the past year. I thought of several projects he could do, like an "Ask Father Roger" blog, practical church management (he turned around multiple parishes with crumbling infrastructure), etc.
I objected to my brother's description of Uncle Roger's "extraordinary faith", suggesting a lower-toned "deep faith". Why? Uncle Roger would have shied away from that level. He was a humble man. One anecdote to make the point, from the the sermon of the diocesan officer who presided over the mass: one parish wanted a portrait done of him, as had his 6 predecessors. He wanted no part of that; he just didn't want to draw attention to himself.
The prospective eulogy was liberally laced with family anecdotes and memories, e.g., Uncle Roger sometimes liked to sing the chorus of that novelty hit from the 50's, i.e., "How much is that doggie in the window?" He would tease my petite (under 5 feet) sister #3, saying she ate like a little birdie.
I wanted my brother to focus on those qualities that made for a great priest like
- his nonjudgmental nature
- the simplicity and depth of his faith
- his lack of career ambition beyond serving as pastor
- he was a man of action, not a complainer
- his amiability and approachabiliry with people, even those with sharply different views
- his total commitment to the priesthood (he always took time to read/pray his breviary even on vacation), including obedience to the hierarchy.
There are other moments that are personal in nature. For example, several years back, I had bought him one of those devices that could play both VHS tapes and DVD's. He sent back one of the most effusive thank you notes I've ever seen. As a young man, I once mentioned an incident involving my Dad, and Uncle Roger counseled me in a very thoughtful manner.
Let me explain the last point. The bishop at the time sent Uncle and a few others to study in Montreal. (Most, I think, were sent to study in Baltimore.) The Church was very strict back then. The school would not release him so he could attend our parent's wedding on Thanksgiving. (The folks went to see him on their honeymoon.) My brother wanted to include this observation (and did). But what I wanted to point out was that I didn't want it to come across as a 60-odd year old family grievance against Church authorities (of course, I thought what the seminary was petty, arbitrary, and heartless in making that decision). He never brought it up in all our conversations together. It was a sacrifice paid in his commitment to the Church and his vocation.
My brother also made a reference to the circumstances of my uncle going to school in Montreal as a way of preparing him for ministry for the French parishioners in the Fall River diocese and his licentiate in canon law (sort of a Church lawyer). That's convoluted. Actually his classes in Canada were in Latin, not French. Second, I heard straight from Uncle Roger's mouth several times he didn't want to be stereotyped as French priest, assigned to dying French parishes.
Second, even the bishop's representative made the point that Uncle Roger, when given the choice, of a career path between the Church hierarchy and being a pastor, said there was no real choice: being a pastor. The former quipped Uncle Roger was born to be bishop. (This is an inside French joke: the bishop l'évêque.) Uncle Roger expressed his preference to avoid the bishop's attention and any meddling in parish affairs.
Let me explain the last point. The bishop at the time sent Uncle and a few others to study in Montreal. (Most, I think, were sent to study in Baltimore.) The Church was very strict back then. The school would not release him so he could attend our parent's wedding on Thanksgiving. (The folks went to see him on their honeymoon.) My brother wanted to include this observation (and did). But what I wanted to point out was that I didn't want it to come across as a 60-odd year old family grievance against Church authorities (of course, I thought what the seminary was petty, arbitrary, and heartless in making that decision). He never brought it up in all our conversations together. It was a sacrifice paid in his commitment to the Church and his vocation.
My brother also made a reference to the circumstances of my uncle going to school in Montreal as a way of preparing him for ministry for the French parishioners in the Fall River diocese and his licentiate in canon law (sort of a Church lawyer). That's convoluted. Actually his classes in Canada were in Latin, not French. Second, I heard straight from Uncle Roger's mouth several times he didn't want to be stereotyped as French priest, assigned to dying French parishes.
Second, even the bishop's representative made the point that Uncle Roger, when given the choice, of a career path between the Church hierarchy and being a pastor, said there was no real choice: being a pastor. The former quipped Uncle Roger was born to be bishop. (This is an inside French joke: the bishop l'évêque.) Uncle Roger expressed his preference to avoid the bishop's attention and any meddling in parish affairs.
So my brother didn't go with my edit. Maybe he thought I was trying to take over his eulogy. Maybe Mom or others backed him privately. But it's a difference in our approaches to a eulogy.
Another point was my brother's discussion of Uncle Roger's encounter with mastoiditis during his early primary school years. This was once a leading cause of childhood deaths. My grandparents had lost their first child, a baby girl, to congenital heart disease (blue baby syndrome) and seemed to associate with hospital care, so Uncle Roger and my Mom were born at home. My 4-year-old Mom heard Grandmother plead with God in French, "You called my firstborn home as a baby. Please don't take my son away home, too; it is too much for my heart to bear. I promise, if You should save him, You can have his service in ministering to Your people as a priest." Mom attributes her faith to my uncle's ensuing recovery, and my brother linked the incident to similar one in the Old Testament.
I just didn't think this story fits into a eulogy. A quid pro quo with the divine takes away from my uncle's personal decision to become a priest. I could bicker with things my brother said and didn't say, but he did a decent job overall at the funeral mass (I complimented him after mass), and I heard at least a handful of attendees compliment him. Good for him! I thought it was much better than his original draft, and he had made some concessions to my critique.
My brother also included our grandfather's wish that he could have passed down his grocery store to Uncle. (They liquidated when grandfather retired; I think there's a watering hole in its place now.)
I was corrected on a few details (including my uncle's birth year, younger by 1, a couple of my 6 siblings' weddings were not performed by Uncle Roger, and my middle sisters were baptized by uncle shortly after he was ordained (my Dad was stationed at Otis on nearby Cape Cod).
The mass was memorable in many respects. One of my sisters counted some 33 con-celebrants; I had only met a handful of priests before the pre-mass rosary/visitation. The first few center pews were reserved from them. The consecration was awesome. (My uncle had a signature way of slowly dwelling over each word.) They also joined in some chant at the end of the mass.
I gave a powerful interpretation of the Prophet Isaiah reading, which was in part a tribute to my uncle's signature delivery. Sister #3, a sweetheart who solicited my interest in doing the reading, whispered to me, "Perfect!" as I returned to my seat, No feedback todatefrom others. Of course, the real feedback that matters is my uncle.
Ironically the money'losing church where Uncle's funeral was held is being shuttered within weeks.
Ironically the money'losing church where Uncle's funeral was held is being shuttered within weeks.
The last of my siblings, my youngest brother, and his wife (who did the second reading) got in last. I think they got bumped 2 - 3 late flights from BWI to Providence Friday (the mass was on Saturday). We ate at a favorite restaurant in the area; they were featuring a clam boil special. I think everyone in the family ordered that except my brother-in-law (sister #2) ordered a steak. It was good, but the sausages weren't anything like (grandfather's butcher partner) Granduncle Oscar's tasty ones (I'm not sure if it was the meat or seasonings). Of course, any time someone mentions Uncle Oscar, the molasses story comes up. We kids back then were playing in the back of the store and noticed the big barrel. My sister (#1) and brother (#1) were double-dog daring me to open the tap to see what was in it; we oohed as the thick brown liquid dripped to the ground--only I couldn't stop the tap. My sibling ran to the front of the store to tattle on the mess big brother caused. My granduncle never forget the mess he had to clean up. When I visited my grandfather in college (my Dad and family were in Germany), we went to Uncle Oscar and Aunt Millie's house for dinner, and literally the first thing my uncle said to me was in reference to my molasses fiasco.
It's amazing how the city looks now vs. as a kid. The streets seem narrow and the stores and houses small and crowded together. I recall my Garmin directed me to drive through a street which had vehicles parked on both sides of the street, including an oversized one at the start of the street. It was like threading a needle with inches to spare on each side.
One of the things that really freaked me out where the sky-high hotel rates. My Mom's recommended hotel (near Connie's) was going for $279/night (but basically sold out). You couldn't find a name branch hotel (like Comfort Inn) for under $200/night. My mom suggested the estate would reimburse our travel expenses. This is ridiculous. When I relocated last year, rooms were going for $60-115 per night along interstates. When hotel rooms start going for one's monthly auto payment, I balk. I quickly found a hotel in Somerset (Dad's home town), which I think used to be a Quality Inn (based on its WIFI connection) which could be booked in the $120 rate range. Hot breakfast including eggs and sausage was better than some "continental breakfasts" with factory-produced bland small blueberry muffins etc. I loved the bed, pillows and an office chair, which I would buy for my own use.
I was amazed when I heard a young woman speaking French at breakfast. Even more impressed when the checkout clerk enunciate my last name perfectly. I mentioned it was rare to find a person who knew how to pronounce my surname. He laughed and said he had gone to school with Guillemette's.
I did start work on a blog post Friday night but it was almost impossible to write on their Internet connection (plus I hadn't gotten much sleep the prior night, and I had the funeral in the morning). I tried again last night, but I got back by mid-evening and after dinner, I was too tired to finish this post before today's blogiversary, so the post's title is somewhat misleading.
I was amazed when I heard a young woman speaking French at breakfast. Even more impressed when the checkout clerk enunciate my last name perfectly. I mentioned it was rare to find a person who knew how to pronounce my surname. He laughed and said he had gone to school with Guillemette's.
I did start work on a blog post Friday night but it was almost impossible to write on their Internet connection (plus I hadn't gotten much sleep the prior night, and I had the funeral in the morning). I tried again last night, but I got back by mid-evening and after dinner, I was too tired to finish this post before today's blogiversary, so the post's title is somewhat misleading.
