SOL Tuesday: A Jolly Memorial

Memorials are generally somber affairs, especially when the “departed” are close family or friends. But the one I went to yesterday was almost a party.

            It helped that I did not know Jennifer, the young (48 years old) woman who had died. I was there with my cousin, who had driven up from Virginia, and she was a close friend of the woman’s mother, having met the daughter only once. But I know from my experience that it feels good to have a lot of people around as you commemorate or celebrate a life.

            The memorial took place in the Palm House at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, a light-filled space that felt very appropriate for the woman I heard described by her wife, sisters, college friends, and more recent friends. Under each of our chairs was a piece of colored paper and a Sharpie. At one point people were asked to write the word or phrase that best described their memory of Jennifer—and then to crumple up the paper and toss it to the person who was at the microphone, who then read each one. Not what you expect to do at a memorial.

            When the reminiscences were over, we had delicious catered food—Mexican at one stand, Moroccan at the other—outside, serenaded by a small band. Unfortunately, the weather was not cooperating well; it was chilly, and while some people sat at the outdoor tables, others retreated back to the Palm House.

           Later, children brought out boxes of party hats and glasses, like this pink one. And everything ended with the band leading a parade around the lotus ponds in front of the Palm House, and playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

            A friend of mine who died a few years ago from kidney cancer had a party while she was still able to appreciate it and so she could be present when her friends celebrated her. Jennifer, who apparently loved parties, turned down that suggestion. But she wanted her family and friends to have that party, even if she wasn’t there. And it felt good to continue life for the rest of us.

            And just to illustrate life and death going on all around us all the time, as my cousin and I were leaving the botanical garden, a heron swooped in, grabbed a goldfish from the lotus pond, and flew off with its dinner. 

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Catching Up

Saturday was my husband’s memorial. I knew I would have no time to write anything that day, so I thought I would catch up yesterday and post two Slices for the day. But that didn’t happen either. So here is it, March 7, and I will definitely post three times today. I promise.

            So here’s what I could have posted for Saturday’s slice.

            I barely had enough time to pack up everything — the large picture board, the two notebooks of J.’s newspaper clips, the notebook of the letters he wrote his oldest friend from 1963 to 1970, more memorabilia — when my cousin, driving up from Virginia, called to ask about parking 10 blocks away. Seems she neglected to look up my address, thinking she remembered it, and she was 10 blocks off. So I had time for a few stretches before she arrived at my door.

           
            We set off in her car to the church downtown. (I’m a New Yorker; I don’t own a car.) It’s a 40-minute subway ride and brief walk, but we had too much to carry to take the train. But New York City traffic can be horrendous. In trying to detour around construction, my casual driving knowledge led us into a longer detour than expected. I had to call the church to give updates on our progress.

            The memorial was scheduled to start at 2 p.m. We arrived about five minutes past. My friend who was  coordinating the logistics assured me they couldn’t start without me. And I was amazingly calm. I know J. would have been having a fit; he would have been sure to be there at least two hours in advance. But I’m not like him; I’d wanted to be there by 1 p.m., but if it didn’t happen, it didn’t happen.

            The assembly room was bustling with people. I quickly delegated my daughter to put programs on all the chairs, and I put up the picture board and laid out the books and ephemera. The a capella Art Mob sang, and it was a wonderful and warm couple of hours of remembrances. If it wasn’t exactly as I had envisioned, it was still a supportive and thankful experience.

Here is the cover for the program. 

 

Memorial Time

            I’ve finished writing up my comments about J. and now I’m getting feedback from my writing groups and friends. Now I am gathering together other comments from friends who aren’t able to come to the memorial this week, and also putting together what librarians call “ephemera,” materials like the newspaper clips my husband wrote as a reporter, letters he wrote to friends that they saved, family memorabilia, as well as a large matteboard of photographs.

            While doing all of this work, I felt myself slipping into a relationship with time rather like that I felt when I was pregnant with my daughter, 44 years ago. It feels like this period of time is outside the usual stream of minutes-hours-days passing always in one direction. This “memorial time” feels static, not moving, containing within it all the time J. and I were together but all lumped together.  One moment of time holding all of our moments, which I could bury myself in if I chose.

            I want to be there... yet I don’t, I can’t. I can’t stop living, I have to keep moving forward along with everyone else. Yet somehow I want to keep a connection to that parallel memorial time. Just to touch it, touch him, now and then. 

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