bouncing bubbie
The holidays are plenty stressful, if for no other reason because it suddenly makes you aware of how many damn people there are. The frenzy of holiday activities – traveling, shopping, shipping, visiting, cavorting – puts everyone on a collision course to all the same destinations at the same time, pushing our communal patience to the limit at the very time we're supposed to be practicing goodwill. Throw a family emergency in the mix, and you have the potential for breakdown-inducing panic.
My step-grandmother (an unwieldy and sterile title for such a wonderful lady) passed late last week, setting hurried plans in motion for a funereal visit to NYC. Last minute travel is never easy, and the options are fewer and more precious the week before Christmas. But I managed to get flights to NYC via Raleigh-Durham, a heretofore unknown "hub," aboard a 48-passenger commuter plane, a heretofore unknown "jet."
Novelty aside, the travel went smoothly. I was more concerned about attending the funeral, an activity I have only experienced a handful of times. A sense of foreboding surrounded my preparations, whether due to the holiday stress or the pending event I couldn't say for sure. But any trepidation I felt was washed away by the short 24 hours spent with family, mourning the Bubs' passing.
The Bubs was buried, according to Jewish tradition, in a bare pine box. I've never understood the desire to lavish death with opulence, as though each of our deceased were a Tutankhamen of the modern age. Perhaps it's guilt that drives some to laud the dead in ways that were never matched in life. For others, splendor might be equated with respect for a life worthy of a grand exit. But whether your beliefs in the afterlife are guided by Scripture or Sartre, I can't help but think that a big funereal show is ultimately a distraction to spirituality. Why tie such a pretty bow around misery, as if to celebrate death itself? It is the life lived and the afterlife earned (however you envision it) that truly matter, and neither of these require a princely burial for validation.
And so, instead of talking about caskets or floral arrangements, we simply talked about the Bubs. She brought us together once again, although this time it was her memory rather than her smile that bound the occasion. But even in her absence, the Bubs was still the life of the party.
My step-grandmother (an unwieldy and sterile title for such a wonderful lady) passed late last week, setting hurried plans in motion for a funereal visit to NYC. Last minute travel is never easy, and the options are fewer and more precious the week before Christmas. But I managed to get flights to NYC via Raleigh-Durham, a heretofore unknown "hub," aboard a 48-passenger commuter plane, a heretofore unknown "jet."
Novelty aside, the travel went smoothly. I was more concerned about attending the funeral, an activity I have only experienced a handful of times. A sense of foreboding surrounded my preparations, whether due to the holiday stress or the pending event I couldn't say for sure. But any trepidation I felt was washed away by the short 24 hours spent with family, mourning the Bubs' passing.
The Bubs was buried, according to Jewish tradition, in a bare pine box. I've never understood the desire to lavish death with opulence, as though each of our deceased were a Tutankhamen of the modern age. Perhaps it's guilt that drives some to laud the dead in ways that were never matched in life. For others, splendor might be equated with respect for a life worthy of a grand exit. But whether your beliefs in the afterlife are guided by Scripture or Sartre, I can't help but think that a big funereal show is ultimately a distraction to spirituality. Why tie such a pretty bow around misery, as if to celebrate death itself? It is the life lived and the afterlife earned (however you envision it) that truly matter, and neither of these require a princely burial for validation.
And so, instead of talking about caskets or floral arrangements, we simply talked about the Bubs. She brought us together once again, although this time it was her memory rather than her smile that bound the occasion. But even in her absence, the Bubs was still the life of the party.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
posted by wae at 2:42 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home