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April 5, 2005: Uncle George's Funeral

I mentioned in my last entry that the first weekend of April was supposed to be a bit of a tour, only I ended up with just one gig in Saluda, NC. As it turned out, that was exactly what was supposed to happen, so that I could go to my Great Uncle George's funeral on Saturday.

The gig I did have was really, really good. The Purple Onion is a really great place to play; the people are nice and tip well, the owners are nice and pay well, and the food is fresh and delicious. Because it's a restaurant, people eat and talk, and I wasn't always sure anyone was listening, but the feedback I got from the people I spoke with afterwards let me know that they were paying attention enough to have likes and dislikes from what I played. Oh, and there was a Fredericksburg contingent! The Cox family, who live just about right across the street from my mother, were having a family reunion in Greenville, SC and decided to come up to Saluda just to support a Fredericksburg native. Shouts out to the Coxes!

After the Saluda gig, I crashed in Charlotte with Charles and Elizabeth (thanks, guys!) and headed to Fredericksburg. There were high school friends to see and wedding plans to make on Friday; then Mom and I went up to D.C. for Uncle George's funeral.

My Great Uncle George was my grandfather's brother, on my mother's side. My grandfather, Charlie (but we called him Donda), died when I was 15, and I remember his funeral at St. Columba's Episcopal Church primarily by what I didn't feel; I was certain at the time that I should have been much sadder. I remember feeling better when I talked to my cousin Jim, whose reminiscences of Donda were the sorts of things to which I could relate, and I remember climbing the bell tower at one point when boredom had gotten the better of us. I was wearing a green and blue plaid dress that I wore all the way through college. It is strange to me now that 15 feels like it was part of my childhood; at the time, I didn't feel childish at all. I hadn't been back to St. Columba's until Saturday, and I had flashbacks all day. It was the same basic service, the same basic reception. Erin and Elise, George's granddaughters, looked as though they felt similarly to the way I felt 17 years ago as they politely answered questions about college plans and chatted with relatives they barely knew and secretly wondered how much longer the reception was going to go on. I am technically from their generation, but it doesn't feel that way; my memories of the ages they are now are vague and blurry around the edges, as though I'm peering at them through thick glass.

Uncle George was one of eight children, the second eldest and the oldest boy. Even when you know your grandparents were born a very long time ago, it's a shock to see pictures from their childhoods and realize that they were alive to personally witness a time period you've only read about in books. George's daughter, Joan, had set up a display of photos taken at various times in Uncle George's life, and the photos from his childhood were of the sepia-toned variety, with all the children buttoned stiffly into small versions of the elaborate clothes their parents wore. The boys had jackets, short pants, and dress shoes, their hair combed, posed in strict formation, while Evelyn, the eldest, wore a white dress and a big, floppy bow in her hair just like the children at the school for girls in the movie version of A Little Princess. I have always been slightly in awe of the seeming enormity of the generation gap between me and my grandparents, wishing it weren't quite so large and that I'd had more opportunity to get to know them, and the old photos just drove that point home. How could I have found common ground with people whose world once looked so completely different from mine? A popular question among those "thought-provoking" types of questions (The Book of Questions, for example) has always been, "If you could have lunch with anyone, living or dead, who would it be?" My answer is always the same: "My grandparents, at the age I am now." What would be different about them, and what would be the same? Would we laugh at each other's strange slang words? Would we get along? Would we become best friends? Would they still seem to me so wise and so admirable, with so much integrity, or did that come later, with age and experience? I long to talk to Charlotte and Charlie, before they became Memommie and Donda, before their relationship to me defined the way we would relate to each other. I hear the stories about them in their youth, and I long to be there with them, watching the tennis matches, hearing the gossip firsthand. It's impossible, of course, and so I relied on Uncle George to keep those days alive in my imagination. He had a million stories and was always happy to tell them again. My whole family does this, of course; Mom and Uncle Craig and Aunt Chris and Uncle Paul all take turns telling the stories about Memommie and Donda, Uncle George and Aunt Beverly, Uncle Jack and Aunt June, the cousins when they were kids, the aunts and uncles I never knew who died before I was born. But Uncle George was my connection to my grandfather, Donda, in a way that I didn't even realize until he was gone. When I heard that Uncle George had died, it was like losing my grandfather all over again.

Uncle George was the one who taught me to eat crabs when I was a little girl. (My family had a summer cottage in southern Maryland, where crabs are a big deal.) I told him that at a cousin's wedding, sure that he would have forgotten all about it (he was already in his 90's), but he said, "I'm surprised you remember that!" My grandfather was known all his life for his musical talent, especially his singing voice. At my grandfather's funeral, Uncle George gave the eulogy. He talked about singing in the boys' choir with my grandfather, then dropping out to join Little League. He said that, even though my grandfather preferred music to sports, he would always ask George how the game had gone with genuine interest. I loved the mental image of Donda and Uncle George as two young boys, one listening to the music in his head, the other in a baseball uniform, both part of the same tradition of love, honor, and respect. That eulogy was a gift I'll always treasure; it brought me the closest I've ever come to my dream of really knowing them. Just as Uncle George loved to hear my grandfather sing (and he was a fine singer himself, by the way; all the Fletchers were), he took an interest in my musical training when I was very young. "Have you written any songs lately?" he would ask when he saw me. "Sing one for me!" He wasn't the only grown-up to ask me to sing the songs I'd written by way of encouragement, but he was one of the few who really listened. It wasn't just perfunctory. I think he was thrilled to watch the gift of music pass from my grandfather to my mother to me.

Uncle George gave more eulogies for more of his siblings, but I missed those funerals. I know they were wonderful because Uncle George was a great public speaker. One of my first thoughts when I heard he had died was, "Who's going to give the eulogy?" His son, Uncle Dick, did it, and he did it well. He even referred to his father's own love of a podium with a microphone, which I loved. I hadn't seen Uncle Dick in years, not since Uncle George and Aunt Bev stopped hosting dinner at 4808 Nebraska Avenue on Christmas night. Seeing many relatives I hadn't seen in years was one of the great gifts of the day. They're all named Richard, and it gets confusing, and I worked hard at matching faces with the names I've only written on Christmas cards for so long. I'll be writing them on wedding invitations soon, which made it that much more meaningful to reconnect with so many people, to remember who they are and how much I like them. Similarly, I'm really glad now that I'm getting married in the Episcopal church. I'd always envisioned my wedding that way, but I'm not very religious these days. There's a church in Atlanta I go to occasionally, but the church of which I'm a "member" is still the one in my hometown that I only visit once or twice a year. I wasn't sure getting married in the church was the right thing to do, but I knew I wanted my wedding to be solemn and holy and as serious as possible. I wanted a religious ceremony, but, more importantly, I wanted my marriage to connect me to the traditions of my family. Uncle George's funeral made me positive that I've made the right decision. At moments of great sadness, great joy, or transition, it is very comforting to be able to take part in an ancient ritual. It makes me feel like I'm part of a grand tradition, which I am; my family on my mom's side is Episcopalian as far as the eye can see. My great grandfather (George's and my grandfather's father, Richard) was one of the founders of the church where the funeral was held, St. Columba's. One of the famous family stories about St. Columba's (George was just a child) involves the hitching post they used to have out front. It was a great comfort to me to sit in the pew and be able to recite the prayers and hymns by heart, to feel like I belonged there. Sometimes I feel like the Episcopal service is NOT the place for me (there are so many rules to follow, so many things that must be done a certain way, so many things that feel archaic and outdated to me, and my mind does wander so), but there are things I like about it, too. Both Uncle George and my grandfather were very involved in the church community; they both took altar flowers to shut-ins, hosted coffee hour, all that stuff. My favorite thing about the church, ever since I went away to college, has always been the fact that it makes me feel so connected to my family history.

Speaking of my place in my family, it seems that I really am an adult now. As my grandfather's generation continues to move on to whatever comes next for us, I can no longer take a seat at the kids' table. I am about to get married and probably start a family of my own, and I am suddenly feeling a weight of responsibility. Donda, Uncle George, and all their siblings (Uncle Richard is now the only Fletcher sibling living) have lived good lives. Now it's up to us, and we must do the best we can. I don't think I've even begun to do my best. The other night I was over at my friend Yvette's house, and she mentioned that she'd been taking food to a family whose daughter is in the hospital. It seemed like such a grown-up thing to do that I was shocked; then I realized that I am a grown-up, and it's my turn to do this kind of stuff. I may or may not decide to start going to church on a regular basis, but I do need to do my part to help out in my community. Taking casseroles to people may be a cliche of suburban manners, but it's still important. Someone has to do it - well, no, actually no one has to do it, and that's why doing it is so crucial. We have to treat each other with love in this world. It used to feel like that was my parents' job, and it's a little terrifying to suddenly realize that the job is mine now, rightfully inherited from the generations of my family who've been taking care of their communities for years. Once, long ago, my grandfather took my sister and me along with him on one of his trips around the neighborhood, taking flowers to members of the congregation who could no longer attend services. My understanding of the job was that we would deliver the flowers and leave, but Donda didn't see the job that way at all. He knew that his real purpose was to provide company, complete with parish gossip, chats about the weather, and whatever else was of interest that day. I remember one old man in particular who had shelves on the wall that contained little trinkets, things I thought were beautiful. He let my sister and me play with them, and I fell madly in love with a rhinestone-covered lipstick case. I was too young to wonder why an old man who lived alone would even have such a thing; I knew only that it was beautiful and sparkly in the light. When we were ready to leave, the old man told us that we could each pick something from the shelf as a souvenir of our visit. I held my breath as my sister picked first, willing her not to choose the precious trinket that was almost within my grasp, afraid to even look at it, lest my glance remind her of its existence. She picked a doll instead, and I breathed a sigh of relief and picked up my treasure. I had that rhinestone-covered lipstick case for years, and it fascinated me. There was still a tiny bit of lipstick inside, bright red. I would try to imagine the woman who had owned that lipstick case; in my mind, she was impossibly glamorous and sophisticated. Underneath my preoccupation with my new toy, I was faintly aware of another, greater lesson: that when we do good things for others, good things come back to us tenfold. (I mean, really; that amazing lipstick case in exchange for flowers and a few hours of conversation? What a deal!)

Eleanor, who volunteers here at the Atlanta Opera, just caught me smiling as I wrote this and asked me what I was writing. I told her I was remembering my Great Uncle George. She said she hoped that someday, one way or another, she would put such a smile on someone's face. As for me, I still don't have a clear picture of what my future holds. I hope, though, that when it's time for my funeral, I will have lived a life worthy of inclusion in the pantheon of famous Fletcher stories. I hope George and Charlie are together, wherever they are, with their parents and all of their brothers and sisters, and I hope that when they see me down here, with so far still to go, they smile.

What’s in my stereo at home:

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