Long-eared Owls

There are many things I could write about this evening. There always is, despite me being in the twilight of my years. And being in the twilight of one's years means that one finds oneself having many funerals to attend as one's peers are, as daughter one exclaimed, 'dropping like flies'.

There was a first this week, two funerals in one day. J died last Thursday, and the funeral was to be the following Tuesday. A lovely person, when she was well a frequent visitor to our home, always a lady. She had been unwell for a long time. Then on Sunday the news that R had died. We'd known him for decades, me first for when I met R, Bert would still have been at school.

His funeral was also planned for Tuesday. Both services would be held at the same funeral parlour two hours apart. The first service (R) was non-religious, a first for me. Likely a first for many who attended, as our part of the world still clings to the notion that funerals must involve a minister, priest or pastor. Awkward when the recently departed has had no truck with religion. R had the courage of his convictions and dispensed with all that. 

I'm sure I was not the only one there who was heartened by his send-off. And encouraged. I could not help but think that anyone there who did not actually know the man would have been left wishing that they had.

J's service was more traditional, which was fitting as she was a person of faith. And funerals are deeply personal, both for the departed and those that remain.

Then today, I heard of another approach, a person who chose not to have a funeral. Again, their personal choice. Hard though, on those left behind, without that closure. 

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Bert's going to a wedding on Saturday. I was asked too, despite having requested to be excused. I declined, Bert will go for both of us and I will drive him there, and may well have to collect him too.

When I made my excuses to the groom he said,

No pressure. Whatever suits you. But, seeing as you're not going would you be OK looking after our dogs?

What could I say? Yes, no bother at all.

Tonight, after the funerals, before the wedding, I delighted myself by going outside and noting all the different areas where young long-eared owls were calling for food. There were at least four of them, some only yards from our door. That's the joy of living surrounded by trees.

Red Coat

 

Yet again I find that I am turning into my mother for Matty had a thing about coats. Every time we went into a charity shop (which was often) she’d be perusing the coat rails looking for the perfect, lightweight, showerproof beige coat. My thing about coats does not include beige. My thing is the perfect funeral coat.

I have yet to find it. At a pinch I have a couple of coats that would do. One black and one navy, both M&S. For a long time I resisted navy as I have never gotten over the trauma of St. Louis Grammar School, those three hellish years that I was tortured by fascist nuns - a special mention for that vicious bitch, Sister Mary Benedicta. I still shiver at the sight of navy skirts.*

My funeral coat needs to be smart and sombre. I know that now. For there was another traumatic time in my life, thankfully brief, only about an hour long, that I got the funeral outfit very wrong indeed. And it could have been avoided, if only I’d known. You see, I was not used to the mores surrounding a Presbyterian funeral. Bert’s Aunt Sally’s husband Jack had died very suddenly. He was carrying buckets of meal to his calves when he suffered a heart attack and fell to the ground face first, stone dead. How the minister preached! At any moment, we might be struck down! Are you ready? Are you saved? And so on…

I heard all this because in my stupidity, not wanting to be left alone in the house with the female members of the family I went with Bert and his father to the burial ground. Bert promised me I would not be the only woman there but I was and not only was I the only woman I was the only person there in a bright red coat. Everyone else was wearing the darkest of hues. It is also highly likely that I was the only Catholic in the crowd. Oh, I would have given anything then to be back in the farmhouse, coatless and braving the Presbyterian womenfolk.

A humiliation never to be forgotten. Although it didn’t put me off red coats. I’ve three hanging in my wardrobe right now.

I know that's just two but the corduroy one I have in two sizes, one that fits and one that doesn't.