The Pool

When compared with the politics, social pitfalls, and ever shifting landscape of who hung out with whom, who was dating whom, the Archie Dillon Sportsplex was an oasis of calm, of known rules and expectations. The staff changed relatively slowly, as the older teens left for university, and younger ones arrived, first as helpers, then as guards and instructors.

Whereas in school, cliques and friends were segregated by grade and age, rarely mixing, at the pool, all ages were thrown together, regardless of age, regardless of school. We met, got to know each other, learned to work and play with one another. Even the adults, who made up the small maintenance staff and management. What they thought about working with a bunch of teens is anyone’s guess. We certainly didn’t ask them.

Early on, when I was but a wee helper, I recall Anthony Loreto, Cecil Guenette, Rhonda McIntyre, and my sister, among others. Later on, there was Jodie Russell, Christine Racicot, Janice Milton, and Wendy Rochon. Then Garry Martin, Henri Guenette, Sean Light, and Susan Spencer. There were the Senkus twins, Astra and Alma. Later still, Jeff Chevrier, Jeff O’Reilly, and Neil Petersen.

We shared a common history, swimming lessons at the Schumacher pool, summers at Gilles Lake and the Mattagami River. We’d grown up in the water, took lessons together for years, passed CPR and National Lifeguard. Was there politics and pitfalls, romances, rifts and grudges? Sure. But I guess I flowed with it more. These were my friends.

I still had my group of friends at O’Gorman, mainly Garry, John, and Chris. And new ones, too. Renato, Mark, and Roger. And comfortable acquaintances. Gerry Gerard, Sean Quinn, Andrew Rose. We attended dances together, hung out at Top Hats. We spent hours in each other’s basements listening to LPs, watching the digital displays of the EQs rise and fall. Talking. Shooting the shit.

But in that Timmins has always been a cliquey town, those friends at the Sportsplex became my clique. We shared the same experiences.

There were parties, late night after hour swims; there was skinny dipping, not often, but it happened.

And there was work. Lessons to be taught. Swims to guard. Chaos reigned during public swims, far busier then, than now, I expect. The kids would wait at the change room doors, much like we had at the Schumacher pool, half spilling out, and waiting for the bell. And when it rang, they’d run out. We’d yell at them to WALK, and they would slow to a rapid duck walk. I had to bite my cheek, lest I burst out laughing.

We’d rotate through guard positions, 15 minutes per station, scanning the sea of flowing, bobbing heads for that one kid who might actually be drowning, bobbing and splashing for far more urgent reasons.

Older teens would jettison from the high diving board, slapping the 60-inch steel vent tube before plunging feet first into the deep end, falling far too close to the wide mobile divider that separated the deep end from the shallow for our comfort. They’d often time their leap to splash us as we crossed the walkway, something our boss, Tory Kullas, wanted us to kick them out for. Personally, I didn’t care. We’d race across the walkway when they did it, breaking our own rule of never running on deck, not that any kids ever called us on it.

Once, I watched a late teen do a running dive off the high board. Halfway through his arc, he saw how far he’d overshot. I heard him growl, “Oh, shit!” as he descended. And I heard the loud low hollow drumming of his head on the divider as he entered the water. His lower legs had still to enter the water when he hit. I stood up on my chair, my own legs shaky! I was sure I’d just seen a spinal injury, if not a full on broken neck or fatality. We’d spent hours training for spinals, but I never thought I would actually have to perform one. I was off the chair, at the water’s edge, before I saw him swim under the surface to the deck. He clung to the tiles, held his head.

He actually refused treatment, refused to allow us to call an ambulance. But he did leave. My legs were weak for an hour.

I had my Zen moments there, too. I’d take a flutter board (a kick board), and hugging it to my chest, would roll endlessly in the hot pool, buoyancy and centrifugal force carrying me through rotation after rotation. My mind cleared, sound receded. Calm. Bliss.

Pitfalls of Peers

We were all trying to find our way through those formative years, some more successfully than others. Friendships were reassessed, and we are all shuffling whom we hang out with.

We all learn new things, adapting as we go. Learning about ourselves, too.

John Lavric introduced me to punk and metal. Punk stuck. Chris Cooper opened my eyes to Ska Revival, Reggae, and Post Punk. Garry Martin loved New Wave. Garry was a bit restless, always in need of motion. New Wave and dancing was a pressure release valve. Dan Loreto was very much a Classic Rock guy. John, Renato Romey, Roger Rheault and Mark Charette had cars. I did not. There were girls. There were bullies. So much to absorb, so much to assimilate.

How did I do at negotiating those pitfalls? I have my opinion on that, but you be the judge.

One day I was walking towards the school, up Joseph, with two of the aforementioned gamblers (see earlier memory, gambling in high school). We were in sight of the school, literally at the corner of the “senior” building, when suddenly the two of them jumped me, trying to wrestle me, and at times throw me, to the ground. I gripped them, then I somehow (I’ve no idea how I managed it) managed to get both in a headlock, and we hit the ground together, probably not what they’d been expecting. They struggled. I held on. From what I could see, they were turning red. “Are we done yet?” I asked. They said we were, and I let go of them. Upon rising, I saw other members of their steady clique further on. That should have told me something. But I brushed that bit of foreshadowing aside. They said we were done, and so I thought we were, until I’d learned otherwise. I refer to the night they took me to the cleaners.

After they took me to the cleaners, there was a spat of punching. I don’t know who started it, or why, but I understand the whole alpha male posturing thing now. Only the jocks and toughs participated. But I did, too, once. I agreed to this to vent my rage on one of the gamblers. Stupid, really. The rules: Each took his turn, balling up his fist and driving it into the fleshy bit of the other’s shoulder. The scrappers pulled this off with a rapidity and an accuracy that boggled the mind. Was I good at it? No. I was never a fighter. But I did connect solidly a few times. I know I did because I heard it. Most of mine were glancing blows, though. Not so the other guy, who took the time to aim, and he punched me repeatedly. I was bruised and sore for days on end afterward. But they did leave me alone, after that.

As I said, there were girls. Crushes and likes included Sandra, Dawn, Patricia, Gretchen, Mona, Elaine, and Carole, among others. I suppose we all fell in and out of love with dizzying regularity. I discovered young love makes one stupid, though, gullible in one’s aim to please.

Carole asked me if I wanted to play a game. I was flattered and agreed. She pulled out a quarter and traced its edge on a piece of paper (then palmed the original coin, unseen, and produced a new clean coin), then said all you have to do is roll this coin off your face onto the pencil circle and you win the quarter. She proceeded to do so. Her coin landed outside the circle. It’s hard to do, she said. She traced the coin again, telling me it got easier with more circles.

So, I rolled it off my nose. Missed. She traced it again. I passed the coin to her but she said she’d already done it and wanted to see if I could beat her time. Of course, the rules said I could not roll the coin off the same spot, so I tried off my cheek. Missed again. Repeat a few more times.

A crowd had gathered, a teacher among them. After a few more attempts, Paula Soucie looked in, and gasped.

“David, you need to stop this, right now,” she told me.

I was obviously confused so she took me by the arm and lifted me from my seat, and said, “You need to stop this and wash your face.”

I was then surrounded by laughter.

Paula threw a look of disgust at the assembled onlookers. And an even more vicious one at Carol.

As we left the room, Paula explained the trick I had been a victim of. Shocked, I hid my face and rushed past those giggling faces in the hall until I reached the bathroom.

I looked on my pencil marked, crisscrossed face in the mirror.

Crush ended. In a heartbeat.

A Sense of Self

By high school I had begun to have a sense of myself. And maybe of things to come, although I was oblivious to my own enlightenment.

I’d always had an interest in the Arts, and any form of creativity.

Math? Not my forte. Physics? Too much math.

But history, geography, social sciences and literature. I should have seen that coming and pursued it. I did later, somewhat. Those were the courses I was drawn to in university.

But back in high school, we were taught to pursue math, science, the “higher” callings. That way the student would be particularly prepped for law, business, medicine, and engineering.

I loved to draw. As a young child I used to lay out my comics and copy the panels. And that’s where it ended. Transferring to the Catholic separate school system meant an absence of arts programs. But that didn’t erase my interest. I’ve always been keen on painting, sketching, sculpture. I’ve purchased some books on drawing recently, but there doesn’t seem to be enough time, not enough hours in the day to pursue all interests, not yet, anyway.

I was always drawn to music. I was gathering a fairly substantial record collection, starting in 1976...and have yet to stop, although I’ve given up on keeping up with new releases. New purchases are more likely filling out the gaps in the soundtrack of my life, classical and jazz. I’ve discovered jazz these days, probably because I’d spent a lifetime watching old movies, starting with Saturday Night at the Movies when I was a kid, continuing on with TCM these days, and those films are replete with it.

And these days I’ve been learning to play musical instruments, as well. Clarinet, sax, guitar. Am I any good? Not really, but I suppose I'm not horrible, either. I’m hopeless away from sheet music. And it’s difficult to learn to play with others when there’s no one to play with. I missed out on that phase when everyone can suck together and everyone is okay with it. For whatever reason, people my age who do play music automatically believe, when they hear that I play too, that I’ve been playing instruments for 40 years, which I haven’t. When they do find out that I’m not a guitar god, they invariably lose interest. Am I hurt by that? You bet I am. But learning to play is a journey, and I do love the journey.

And of course, Story. Movies, books, myths, saga, epics. Any form of story narrative. Even as a young lad my imagination ran wild with story. I used to lug my parents Underwood to the kitchen table and, after much deliberation, type a page, usually some shlock reminiscent of ‘50s Red Menace movies. You know the type: giant mutated insects that attack a hapless town, that sort of schlock. I loved the clack of the keys as they struck the page. Computers may be more efficient, but there was nothing like the sound of a typewriter.

Creative writing came later. Much later. Two complete novels. But those are memories for later.

Until then, I read. A lot. I was always carrying a book around with me to fill empty moments, surprising, considering my having only begun to read in earnest in middle school.

I know. Not much of a story this time. Just collecting my thoughts on what I was, up to where I left off.

In High School.

Lessons Learned: Penny Poker

Throughout high school I was always trying to broaden my group of friends. That meant my adapting to what they liked to do. For some it was cars, so there was a bit of cruising involved; for others, it was video games; and still others, swimming.

There were those who had a weekly cards/billiards night. They were not the usual guys I hung out with. Some were part of the hockey crowd, a fairly excusive crowd, at best. I suppose most cliques are or they wouldn’t be a clique.

I remember the card clique well, just not what they were into, individually. Hockey does come to mind, but one of their number was heavily involved in tennis during the summer, as well. Some were “popular.” Certainly more popular than I was. I’d become more quiet and bookish throughout my high school years, in spite of track and helping out at the pool. So, I was flattered when I was asked to join them on their weekly Saturday gathering.

The game of choice was usually blackjack, although one of their number hosted billiards at his home. I wasn’t that good at pool then, I would be later at college, but I was a passable player, so I enjoyed those nights. Music was playing. There was much laughter. So, yeah, those nights were fun. Games were bet on, of course. Everything these guys did on a Saturday night involved a bet.

I was never much of a card counter, though. My family didn’t play cards much. My father could play cards, and was always dealing games of solitaire when I was growing up. And I discovered over the years that he was good at most card games. He’d brag to me on occasion on how he’d taken the guys he played with at Stags to the cleaners, on how cards were how he got his mad money (my father passed his paycheck to my mother, and never took an allowance, so I’d say those claims were true). I suppose it wasn’t just bragging. I believe now that he just wanted me to be proud of the things he did and had done. So, yeah, he was good at cards, good at gambling. Me? Not so much.

There was always a big winner each night we played. When I say big, I mean five or ten bucks. That was a lot of money to me then. I had yet to begin working for my money, so I was limited to my allowance. As there were about five or six of us, no one lost that much, no more than a buck, usually. I was never a big winner. I was usually a loser. I’m not complaining, it usually only amounted to a buck or two each Saturday night, less than I’d dole out at the arcades. But the potential for greater loss was always there.

There was a precedent set, earlier on, before I’d ever been invited (or so they said), where players could back a player against the “bank.” The bank was whomever was dealing that round. I didn’t understand how that went, or how odds could increase one’s winnings, but I went along with the precedent. One is supposed to trust one’s friends, so I was taught to believe. And I wanted these guys to be my friends.

The last night I played cards with that group, indeed, the last time I ever actually hung out with the gambling group, they took me to the cleaners. A player had doubled down, then doubled again. And had drawn some good cards. Not great. But good enough. So, when I had drawn 17, one of his three hands still beat my hand. And then, as fate would have it, there was another precedent I was unaware of, that the house had to “hit on 17, stick on 18,” and that if any of his hands beat mine, I lost and had to pay out on all three.

So, I drew another card, and busted. I lost 20 bucks in one hand, more money than I had with me. My heart caught my throat. I was devastated. I was sure they had just played me, that their precedents and their rules were bullshit. Moreover, I was sure they had only reason they invited me to join them in the first place was as a fleece. Why? Because they all laughed at me. They insisted I pay up. They insisted that I pay up RIGHT NOW.

I couldn’t, of course. But I did pay up. It took me a week, but I paid my debt. As my parents had taught me to do.

I’ve never gambled since. I have no respect for it.

Tackle Football

The football we played at O’Gorman was not what you’d call organized. There were limited rules, were just thrown together at a moment’s notice, and were definitely not supervised, in spite of being played almost within sight of Sister Fay’s office (out principal). We were just messing around in the thin strip of grass fronting the main building on Rea Street, that bit of land no wider than a vehicular lane’s span, that length that reached towards Ross Street. There were no windows along that bit, just the cinderblock wall. We were no fools. We were never going to play in full view of a teacher’s desk. We also didn’t want to break any windows. That would have ended football season in a heartbeat. We didn’t think to move the games to the larger field behind the portable, that would have necessitated planning, and would opened up the game, and we were all about the rough and tumble of crashing through the tighter, narrow lines that that thin strip of land afforded.

Teams were quickly assembled. That didn’t take too long, as the teams were usually no more than 6 to a side, and were invariably made up of close friends. One didn’t want to hurt one’s friends, after all. But we did get hurt. This was not touch football. This was lead with your elbows to make a hole in the other team’s line football. This was pile up on top of the downed player to wrench the “loose” ball from his hands football. Closer to rugby than to football.

There wasn’t enough length in the field to advance up field, so all three downs were begun from the same start, each down potentially a touchdown. There were only three downs to keep the game moving along. There was only so many minutes in a recess.

The game always started with a coin toss. The winner was always first offence.

I recall one play in particular. We were defending. There was the snap, the usual rush of bodies. Our forward three pushed hard to hold the line, their three to open a space along the wall. Their receiver slipped by, then broke right towards Rea Street, with me in hot pursuit. The ball was thrown and I leapt and reached high to bat it down. I missed. The lines shifted, ours to defense in depth, theirs to block our defense, to clear the way to the end zone. The ball was caught and Garry Martin took hold of the receiver’s shirt, then gripped his torso and hauled on him hard, dragging and pushing him toward the wall. I just happened to be in the way as I landed and tried to find my feet. I felt their bodies crash into mine, and then their weight on me as I crashed hard into the cinderblocks, sliding down the wall onto my ass. Then the rest piled on. Arms reached, hands grabbed and dragged. Elbows landed. The weight rolled and crushed.

And when the last body piled on, my head snapped back.

I actually heard the impact within my skull. It was a soft, watery “bonk!” And there it was, my second concussion. I was instantly dazed, only somewhat aware of the shifting weight as they first struggled for the ball, and then rolled away and off of me.

It took a moment before anyone realized that I was not getting up.

I just sat there for a couple minutes, pupils likely dilated.

I don’t recall there being too many more games after that. Not for me, anyway.

Lessons Learned: The Perils of Gambling

After Grampa died and his service was complete, his casket stacked in storage, the family convened at Gramma’s house for supper, and the wake. There was loads of food, of course; where it all came from is beyond me. Both my grandmothers were active in the Catholic Woman’s League, so I suppose the CWL pitched in to feed 50ish people. Beer and wine were served, liberally. It was 1980, and my relatives drank more than now, I believe. Not me, I was 15. Had I drank by then? What do you think? I’m from Northern Ontario. Most teens I knew had drank a beer, by then. But publicly, under the gaze of my relatives, not a chance. Not at first, anyway.

Someone suggested for us to play cards, poker, if I remember correctly. I ask you, who plays poker at a wake? A group collected around the kitchen table, and Uncle Frank asked Keith and I if we wanted to play. I begged off, telling Uncle Frank that I didn’t have a clue how to play poker, but Uncle Frank insisted, telling us that he'd “help.” That he'd explain the game to us. So, we agreed. We wanted to hang out with the adults, to finally graduate from the kids’ table. We sat at the foot of the table, at Gramma’s end by the kitchen, Uncle Frank between us. Keith held the cards. I leaned in to see them. I took care of the money.

Uncle Frank was the one actually playing. Obviously. He’d ask us what we thought, how many cards we should discard, and so on. But when it came time to actually discard, it was Uncle Frank who pointed out which cards to keep, and more importantly, what to bet, and when to fold.

The game was small stakes, nickels, dimes, the pot rarely rising above two bucks. Keith and I were up; I doubt we were the big winners, hand by hand, or even throughout. But we were definitely up, the small stack of coins before us steadily growing. We were thrilled.

Someone suggested that Keith and I were old enough to have a beer with the family. I looked up at my Dad, up at the head of the table. He nodded, so I had one. Not used to drinking, I sipped at it. It rose to my head fairly quickly, so I didn’t drink much, or that quickly. Not so others around the table. It was a funeral, after all. For some, their father had just been “buried.” Emotional states were fragile at best.

“Keith and I” won yet another hand. We whooped it up, I gathered in the next haul, and we laughed.

And then it happened. We were accused of cheating. Cheating?! How could we be cheating? We didn’t have a fucking clue what we were doing. Uncle Frank was running the show. But Keith held the cards, and dealt them when our turn came. And I collected the money.

Keith and I were dumbfounded. Uncle Frank told everyone to calm down. But they didn’t. Tension rose. Voices rose. And our accuser advanced on us. Uncle Frank rose up and stood before Keith and I, but come on, Uncle Frank was about 80, and not a big man by anyone’s imagination. A slight breeze might have floored him. My father shouldered his way between us and our accuser. They were nose to nose. Shoving began. Bodies entered the fray.

But before fists flew, the women were rushing into the room, and my grandmother was between the combatants, holding them apart at arm’s length. Giving them hell, telling them to grow up and behave themselves. And they regressed into little boys, staring at their feet. Eventually separated.

There were muted conversations, much milling about, more than a few tears welled up and the sobbing was renewed, here and there, then everywhere. The gathering began to break apart after that.

My mother rushed us into our coats. I didn’t want to go. I’d been given my first family beer and had been having a good time up till then, and I didn’t want to be separated from Keith, whom I’d begun to see less and less of. I was also drunk. And I think my mother knew that.

Herded into the car, she drove us back to Nanny’s. She set me aside, consoled me. I wanted to push her away. I was an adult, now, for Christ’s sake!

In the quiet of Nanny’s house, I began to cry, then to sob uncontrollably for the first time that day.

Timeline

The timeline of important dates, as I know them, reaching quite a way back. If you’ve been following these missives from the beginning, these dates will correct any mistakes I’ve made. I’ve skipped around some, so this will place them in perspective. I’ll take it to about where I am in my memories and recollections. After that there'd be spoilers, and we can’t have that.

Robert Patterson Murray (Bob), my Nanny’s (Hilda) father, was born in Greenock, Scotland on Oct. 21^st, 1878. Bob was a fire marshal for Eaton’s in Toronto.

Joseph Meclea Gauthier, my Poppa, was born in Quebec on Sept. 23, 1897. Mec had 3 siblings that I know of: Fernando (no kidding; Mec’s elder brother, also a pharmacist) of Matheson, Anita (Mrs. G. Bradshaw) of Kenora, and Cleo (who’d served in WW2 in the RCAF, was shot down, requiring a plate in his head).

1880, Susan, Hilda’s mother, was born in Toronto.

Approx. 1900. Bob and Susan were married.

1902. my namesake, David George Murray, my Nanny’s brother was born in Toronto. David was a telegraph operator for the Canadian National Telegraph, and then the Toronto Star, rising to supervisor.

1903, my Grandfather (Grampa), Jules Auguste, was born in Herstal, Belgium.

1905, my Nanny, Hilda was born in Toronto.

1907, Jules immigrated to Canada.

1908, Blanch Valarie Blondeau, my Grandmother (Gramma) was born, in Fillhilla, Saskatchewan, of Joseph and Valerie (nee Hamelin), of Labret, Sask., and Fort Range, Manitoba, respectively.

1909, Marion, Hilda’s sister was born.

1916, Bob Murray enlisted in the army, as a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, 170th Battalion. Service #681074. He went on to fight at Vimy Ridge, Passchendaele, etc. He was never injured as far as I know.

Approx. 1919, Bob and Susan divorced. There’s a lengthy story to this. Maybe I’ll tell it later on. Susan took in boarders to make ends meet.

Approx. 1924, Mec and Hilda met at Susan’s boarding house.

1925, Mec and Hilda married.

Approx. 1926, Jules and Blanche met at a cotillion, in Saskatchewan.

1926, Mec and Hilda moved north to Matheson.

Approx. 1926, Jules and Blanche were married. They moved to Timmins, Ontario along with my mother’s sisters, Angel, and Marie (and her husband Frank). Jules and Frank worked for the MacIntyre mine.

1928, Mec and Hilda moved to Cochrane, opening his drug store.

1928, Aunt Lorraine, Jules and Blanches’ eldest was born.

1930, Uncle Laverne, J&B’s 2^nd was born. (Don Tishler, of Detroit)

1932, Uncle Ronny (Ronald), J&B’s 3^rd was born. (Denise)

1935, Uncle Jerry (Jerome), J&B’s 4^th was born. (Hazel, then Beverly)

1936, Edgar, my father, J&B’s 5^th was born in Timmins. (Marlene)

1937, Marlene, my mother was born in Kirkland Lake, and was soon adopted by my grandparents.

1945, Uncle Derik, J&B’s 6^th was born. (Larry)

Sometime in the late 40s or very early 50s, Jules and Blanche moved to Cochrane, where Jules worked for CN until his retirement in the 60s.

1947, Susan, my Great-grandmother passed away.

1952, Bob, my great-grandfather passed away, while at a Leafs game. He used to usher the games, as far back as when they were the St. Pats.

1956, my parents were married.

1958, Great Uncle David died, from a heart attack, at work.

1963, Karen, my sister was born.

1963, Mec retired.

1964, I was born in Ottawa, and am adopted by Ed and Marlene.

1969, I began Kindergarten, and promptly lost my mitts after Christmas.

1970, we moved from Cochrane to Timmins. I began Grade 1 at Pinecrest School.

1972, Mec passed away. 74 years old

1972, I was held back in Grade 2.

1973, my Aunt Hazel passed away, from Cancer.

1977, I left Pinecrest and entered St.Theresa. Karen entered R. Ross Beattie.

1977, Uncle Ronny passed away, from a heart attack. 44yrs

Cookie, my first dog (corgi) died, and Piper (West Highland White Terrier) joined our family. We traveled to London, where we met and adopted her.

1979, I graduated from St. Theresa, and entered O’Gorman High School.

1980, Grandpa died, from a stroke. 77 years old

Grandpa’s Funeral

All things come to an end. That's a hard lesson to learn, but we must all learn in our own time.

We all remember our first funeral. The first I ever attended was my grandfather’s. I did not attend my Aunt Hazel’s (I was 9; I must have been, because Keith was nine when him mother died, and Keith and I are the same age), or my Uncle Ron’s (I was 12). My parents thought I was too young to attend those, too young to process the death, maybe. I believe we think differently now; children need to experience life’s passing, and the rituals we hold to help us mark the transition. I remember them passing, though, and why, and the sense of loss. I believe should have gone; children shouldn’t be shielded for death.

My grandfather’s funeral was special. Why? Because it was the first, and last time I was a pallbearer. The eldest male grandchild from each of the 6 branches of the family were chosen for the task, and although I was still fairly young (15), and many in my family thought too young, and maybe too short, or not physically strong enough, for the task, my father insisted that I was to be one.

Sadness prevailed. But the ritual was a comfort--it oght to be; it was a mass, much like every one I'd attended each and every weekend for as long as I could remember, even if the readings were different, and there were eulogies given as well as the expected sermon. The funeral Mass complete, we escorted the casket to the back of the church, sliding that beloved soul into the back of the hearse, and then to the cemetery grounds, we pallbearers following behind in a cousins station wagon. Cigarettes were passed around. I declined. Windows were cracked open, allowing the smoke to escape, and the chill air access. None followed. The graveside service has already been held at the back of the church. There would be no internment that day as the ground was still frozen.

We pulled into the cemetery grounds. I spilled out with my cousins, following, unsure what was expected, if anything. The casket was retrieved, and as one, we hoisted my grandfather on to a shelf atop the other caskets in storage, to be buried later. I’ve never forgotten that, lifting him up onto a rack where he would wait out what remained of the winter until the spring. It felt wrong, incomplete. I bit back tears. I resolved not to cry. I was a man now, after all. Maybe the others did as well. If they did, they did a better job at hiding it.

Winter passed. Spring sprung. We returned for a further gravesite service later in the summer.

That felt better. For me, anyway. Not for my cousin Carol, who wept openly upon passing her mother's headstone. She wept. Was comforted. Composed herself, only to cry again.

Closure is important.