Goodbye Beth; But, Who’s the Mason?

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For me, it was a restless night where I just couldn’t seem to fall asleep until the wee hours of the morning. The wall-mounted A/C was a particularly loud beast and more one that you would associate with mid-twentieth century and perhaps not today. Mother made the journey to the undertaker a couple months ago, so there were no worries about her getting to the graveside service on time. Sharon recalls with some bemusement when she buried her first husband Jim, his body was nearly late because he was shipped a day later than it was scheduled. The funny part was, Jim had never been late for anything in life. My mom was not quite that punctual, especially in my formative years; although my father was meticulously punctual or endeavored to be. I have some memories where my mom’s tardiness caused my dad more than a little exasperation. One such instance was when we were destined to go on a 1962 Christmas time ski vacation while we lived in Italy. About six other families were caravanning together to Cortina, site of the 1956 Winter Games. The plan was for everyone to meet at our apartment building, where another of the families also lived. For some reason my mom was excessively slow getting ready. When we finally did get on the road, it was thirty minutes late, and my dad was not a happy camper. About ninety minutes later we came across what was at that time, the largest multi-vehicle chain reaction car wreck. There were nearly 60 vehicles involved, some of them busses and trucks, and there were three fatalities. We learned that the accident had occurred about thirty minutes before we drove through that one-mile stretch of tangled metal and squashed automobiles when a pea-soup-like fog bank suddenly descended on that stretch of Autostrade. My dad was what you might call a Dilbert-like protégé, and he could do the math. He never gave my mom grief again if she was late; and, for her part her punctuality improved.

We had a continental breakfast at the Fairview Inn. I tried some scrambled eggs from the buffet, with pork sausage and a small bowl of oatmeal. Sharon tried some cereal, which she eats dry, but wasn’t all that impressed with the selection. The girls from the night before at check-in had settled on the center eating area and were holding court, but not with the acoustic enthusiasm they’d enjoyed the previous day. Sharon overheard that they were on a rowing team. I said to Sharon, it must be an “East Coast Thing.” We decided to give ourselves ninety minutes to get to the graveside, which appeared to be just a few miles away when I checked on my “Maps” phone app. We had some time to do our daily Sudoku, and today Sharon beat my time (by 2%). She claimed that her times from yesterday shouldn’t count because she was interrupted by leaving for the airport before she could finish.

I remembered the picture I had for the graveside service. The best picture I had was one of my mother and I taken on a gala night during a one-week Alaskan cruise that we took five years ago with both of our mothers. And I remembered the envelope for the reverend. Driving along the highway I spotted the Funeral Home, who was extremely helpful in receiving and storing my mother’s ashes for a couple of months, arranging for a brief graveside service, and coordinating with the memorial park. We drove by the cemetery entrance because they come up quite suddenly on a major thoroughfare. We got turned around, dealing with jug-handles which mean you need to turn right to make left or U-Turns. What a marvelous New Jersey invention. We were now looking for a flower shop and found one that was supposed to open at 9AM. It was closed when we arrived, and we were about to give up since the sign said they’d be back at 3:30, when a gentleman with a cane struggled over towards us saying, “I’m just a little late.” He was very helpful, and we were able to get some red roses, which he was meticulous about preparing for us. Anybody who knew my mother understands that the only flowers for her, would be roses. She took such pride in the roses that she had nurtured in our BS-California Home. And before you get on me for cursing California, let me spell it out for you: Before Sharon-California Home. She struggled with the soil, alkalinity in the water, nutritional supplements, watering schedules, blistering summers and freezing winters; but, in the end she was successful in getting the roses along the sides of the garage and the property line to thrive in a wide array of colors: but she was most proud of the brilliant red ones. And that’s what we got her to say goodbye.

We returned to the cemetery, this time turning at the entrance, and found the office just around the corner after passing through the iron-gates. I had the lot number and grave number and knew that it was in the Masonic section. They provided me with a map of the grounds, and the gravesite was very near the Masonic monument. The lady at the first desk made a call and confirmed that the gravesite was ready for a service, and there were three chairs already there. We drove on up towards the monument, surrounded by a narrow roadway that seemed to have that “Recirculation Theme” going on. Maybe it’s a New Jersey thing. We were concerned whether parking was permitted along these narrow roadways, not like the wider street-like paved roadways at Forest Lawn where Sharon’s first husband is buried in site of Chavez Ravine. The walk was not too far from where we parked at the office, so we returned and parked there, walking back to the grave site. We set up the picture of my mom and laid the roses on the table that was awaiting her urn. The seats were in the sun, so we walked back to where someone else’s gravesite had a marble bench which we made use of in the shade. We were about 30 minutes early, so we sat enjoying the peaceful surroundings. Then one black sedan made its way along the narrow asphalt pathways, parking within our view and near as you could get to the gravesite. I noticed the Funeral Home in script on the side of the care, and it wasn’t hard to surmise that my mom had arrived on time. A second car stopped behind the first, a second man emerged holding a black book, so it appeared that the service should begin promptly. I waved to them and noted to the man carrying the turquoise colored urn, “I see that you have my mom with you.” He introduced himself as Jim, and the other man introduced himself as Pastor Bob. Jim inquired, “So I understand that just the two of you will be at the service today?” I told him of Beth’s call the previous evening and said that she would be here as well. It wasn’t long before she arrived, with her brother-in-law Joe (her sister Joan died some years ago of cancer), and they came over. I introduced Beth to Sharon, and Beth said to her, “I’m his mother’s namesake.” Sharon agreed, “So I’ve been told.” Beth then had some good news, that her brothers Jay and Bill would also be coming. Jay showed up right away, followed shortly by Bill with his wife Mary Ann and their daughter. Beth asked me, “So, was your dad the mason?” I said, “I don’t think so.” Joe observed, “But then, I guess, if you’re a mason, you’re not supposed to say; so, would you know?” I said, “I thought that all of these plots came from their father’s father, or that side of the family.” My parents were buried next to Dorothy, my mother’s mother. I noticed that she died the same year that my father did in 1992; while, I had always thought that is was a year earlier. She died in January and my father in March. Next to Dorothy was Thomas L., who Beth supposed was Lester (my grandfather). But I knew this was my uncle, who died very young at 50. I wondered where Neal and Mary were, and Bill observed that they were nearby, also in the Masonic section. We thought that it was possible that Neal was the mason. But, ultimately, it was a mystery that baffled us; although, we agreed that since the plots were originating from their side of the family, it probably extended back to either their grandfather or great-grandfather.

They were all ahead of schedule, so we got to exchange some pleasantries before the service commenced. Pastor Bob had some very nice words to say about my mom, noting her 40-plus year marriage to my dad, their penchant for bridge and the very unique way that my mother had of touching other people’s lives. He told a story of a man that was strolling on a beach, and had always wanted to go and explore a cave. One day at low tide he determined that this was the day he would assuage his curiosity, and he entered the cave. Inside he was mesmerized by the phosphorescence of the salty sunlit walls, and before he knew it the incoming tide was up to his ankles. Planning to leave, he was distracted by a bag, and when he explored the burlap bag he found it contained many clay balls; but, now the water was up to his knees. I wasn’t sure where this story was going, especially with the recent headlines of the dozen boys and their soccer coach who had been stranded deep within a cave in Thailand, and trapped by water that had filled a couple of passages. But as he told the story, the man emerged from the bag with the clay balls, and then like any guy, was obsessed with seeing how far he could throw one of the balls. So he threw one out to sea; and, then another even farther. This continued until he dropped one of the balls and discovered that it contained a rare, precious and valuable gemstone. He examined the remaining balls and found they all contain precious jewels. He lamented the ones he’d wasted; but, cherished the ones he’d kept. The clay balls are like the days of our lives, some are squandered, and some are precious jewels. And he observed how my mom had touched so many people in a special way.

After the service I thanked Pastor Bob for the nice personalized words. I asked Beth and Bill and Jay if they had the time for me to treat them to lunch, which they agreed to do. We sought the advice of Jim for a nearby recommendation. His first thought was Sweet Water (Bar and Grill). This was formerly Hawthorne from back in the day when Beth, Bill and Jay had lived in the area. We would need to get on Route-130 and then make 2 U-Turns. Sharon observed “oh boy more jug-handles” Jim then agreed that the Jug Handle was a great bar and grill too; and Beth chimed in, “Oh do you know the Jug Handle.” Sharon started to reply to that we find jug handles very confusing; but, I intervened how Sharon was talking about something other than a bar and grill, and we all laughed. We decided to try Sweet Water, and wouldn’t you know. On the way there, we needed to use a jug handle to do a u-turn after exiting the cemetery and then another one when we got near the restaurant, that headed us into a circle to wind back the other way and then complete the U-Turn! We got to Sweet Water but it was only 10:30 AM so they weren’t open yet. We decide to try “The Shiny Diner” just down the road. It was a shiny chrome diner with ample seating inside. We sat at a table for eight. The waiter brought us menus, and we chatted and ordered beverages. I eventually took a closer look at the menu, and requested a lunch menu when the waiter returned with the drinks. I wasn’t the only one who’d already had breakfast. I think we ended up with about ½ taking breakfast and ½ taking lunch.

We got to talking about food proclivities when Jay ordered his gravy laden open faced sandwich which came with two sides. I marveled that Sharon would appreciate his two choices of French fries and mashed potatoes. Sharon proclaimed, “I’m Irish, I have to like potatoes.” Her Irish proclamation raised to subject of Ancestry, and as it turns out Beth had just had hers tested with ancestry.com. She inquired if I was also on the website. I gave her my username, which is a story for another day, because she never would have guessed that it was me. Sharon and I later checked, and sure enough, she showed up as a possible second or third cousin, which is what Sharon says that she is to me.

Jay and Joe both approved of my choice of the “Mixed Up Cheesesteak” sandwich, saying, if you like Philly Cheesesteaks, this is the area to get them. The mixed up, comes with mushrooms and peppers. Sharon enjoyed her dry sliced turkey which she got with a baked potato, applesauce and a side salad which she got for me. Beth said that Sharon seemed to be more of a finicky eater than me, and seemed a more likely relative to her and her brothers. Bill also doesn’t eat cheese. And nobody seemed to like mayonnaise. Sharon chided me for not liking S’mores; but, Jay agreed with me, that he doesn’t care for marshmallows either.

We had a great time getting to know each other. I hadn’t seen Beth, Bill or Jay since a couple of Thanksgiving get togethers at Neal and Mary’s home in Neptune New Jersey back in the mid-1980’s. At that time, the matriarchs on my mother’s side of the family were also present: my Grandmother Dorothy, her sister and their Grandmother Elizabeth (Betty) and Peggy (the third sister). The restaurant was very good about letting us sit and reminisce. But all good things must come to an end, and eventually it was time to say good-bye.

So it was a final good-by to my mother who is now buried with my Dad. May they both rest in peace and know what wonderful parents they were. And tomorrow the vacation part of the trip can start.

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