Yesterday I went to the funeral of Frances Valda Ashmore, Sal's grandmother and the girls' great grandmother. She was 92. We didn't take the girls. AJ knows who great grandma was but did not get to know her well. Great grandma was the old lady with the "thing" - you have to imagine a 4yr old with her hands out as if holding a walking frame; that's the "thing." I'd left it to Sal to make the call on whether or not we'd take AJ. I think she made the right call; AJ would have seen upset people without really understanding why they were so upset.
The day started badly (for me) with an unmet expectation. I'd said I wanted to go to Manly for breakfast with the girls then drop them at daycare - a novelty start to a Thursday, taking in a sunrise over the ocean. I got back home after a shorter-than-usual walk with Rowlf to find that no one was anywhere near ready. I could have taken the girls myself, but aunt Jo was staying, and she likes to spend a bit of time with the girls; taking them and leaving Jo and Sal would have been rather mean-spirited and selfish, so I stayed and got grumpy instead. I struggle to understand why Sal does not think like I do; if you've been up since 5:30 you've had time to shower, dress and get ready for breakfast by the beach. Unless you've spent your time cleaning and tidying instead. Ah well, nevermind.
Fast forward to the funeral. We'd picked up Sal's other sister Mara and the four of us arrived at a Catholic church in Kincumber on the New South Wales Central Coast, a little before 11am. A few hellos and we walked in to a somewhat cold, modern building. It's sort of circular with lots of glass and a high ceiling. The pews are a light wood, the stained glass in front of what I assume is the confessional area is a little modern and gawdy. A couple of stone fonts and a metallic flying Jesus behind the alter/stage area complete the picture.
We took our seats a few rows back from the front and from flower-topped coffin. There were a lot of kids and teenagers in the smallish congregation. Frances, I learned, had 47 grandchildren, 21 great grandchildren and 2 great-great grandchildren. Make up your own jokes about Catholics and the Central Coast. There were a few words and a few readings, a few sobs as people said their last farewell. We each went forward to gently touch the coffin and say our goodbye to the person whose body was with us.
And now for the religion bit, so feel free to skip the next two paragraphs.
The priest was youngish and kept the mood as upbeat as possible, which is understandable given his faith and that of much of the congregation (I am, of course, making an assumption because I don't know most of them.) I agree when he said "all that remains is the body." The spirit and soul, he told us, were already with Jesus. Frances had been (as is written on the service handout) "born to eternal life on 1st June 2013." I struggle with that, but I'm not going to crap on the comforting beliefs of others just because I do not share them. I did take mild offence at the suggestion that the quality of grieving is different for believers and atheists. I don't recall his exact words, but had he said them to me in another setting I would have taken hinm to task. Both of my parents are dead, and I am happy for you to believe that they have been born to eternal life, but how dare you judge my feelings. Breath...and...relax.
Other than a couple of "amens" I tend to not speak the words I do not believe. To do so would be hypocrical and I avoid this, if not other, hypocrisies. I bow my head and collect my thoughts. I joined in with one bit that seemed particularly odd; we were invited to raise an arm towards the coffin as the priest spoke. The look was uncomfortably like a far-right rally. Well, it looked like that to me...
Religion over.
I think I empathise well. I was on the verge of tears, triggered by the greater sorrow of the Greenwoods around me. I was present to support them and yes, to say my farewell. But I was far from close to Frances, having seen her a handful of times at family events. The final one of those events had been Mother's Day this year. For a frail old lady she had looked well. I was glad she got to meet Harriette and glad I got a picture of our four generations of "Greenwood girls." We'd had fish and chips in WoyWoy on a lovely sunny autumn day. Memories of my own mother's funeral, 20years ago this year, were not far away but didn't come crashing down on me.
Some of the younger kids played as the coffin was driven away. Schoolkids attending the school on the same block as the church went about their day seemingly oblivious to the sadness next door. With the hearse gone we made our way to the Kincumber Hotel for some food and a few drinks. There were brief speeches, poignant in their no-nonsense brevity and raw references to some of the tougher times the family had endured.
But it was family. And it was moving. And I'm glad I went.
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