I haven't blogged for a while, so allow me to play catch-up.
We just returned from Daytona Beach, site of the memorial services for my father. He and Mom lived there for 27 years, and he wanted to be remembered in that special place. So one morning, just as Rosy Fingered Dawn etched her name across the sky, a handful of us, remembering the "dust to dust" story in Genesis, waded knee-deep into the waves and committed his ashes to the sea.
As my brother-in-law, Rev. Kris Hayden, said in his seaside homily, "The rhythm of the waves and the changing tides are metaphors for our lives. We are born, we live, we die, and life begins again beyond earthly existence. John has become part of our lives in new ways. He is with us through memory and the ongoing consequences of his love for us. The constant breeze at this seashore connects us to this spiritual experience."
Just then, as the sky brightened, a few sun pillars radiated from the horizon and a red-orange crown marked the time of Dad's passage beyond our ken.
Later that day we gathered at the church Mom and Dad had attended, and Kris presided over a special "Celebration of Life" service. More than sixty friends and family came from all over the country: from Connecticut, New York, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Georgia, Missouri, Arkansas, Texas, California, Washington State, and of course Florida. Dad's beloved sister Elaine and my cousin Carol were there in spirit, and they called us minutes before the service to send their love from Lake George. Cousins Barbara and Steve Smith came to represent their mother in person and to read her remembrance of her "little brother." There too were condo neighbors, country club golfing buddies, and one of Dad's life-long friends from their days together in high school: Webster Groves, MO, class of 1934! The condo maintenance man (with whom Dad worked on many projects over the years) said afterward that he wouldn't have missed it for anything, so great was his fondness for my father.
During the service I was sitting in the front pew, so I wasn't aware that while Dad's violin teacher played Glazounow's
Meditation, two of his great granddaughters danced quietly in the aisle. They repeated their performance later when the family (some 30 of us) gathered for a private dinner at the hotel. After dinner we recalled some of the historic events that occurred during Dad's long life: the Russian Revolution, the "Roaring Twenties," the Great Depression, World War II, Korea, the Cold War, the turbulent sixties, man on the moon, resignation of a president, impeachment of another, election of the first person of color to that office. We remembered also the advances that were made in the field of medicine: the discovery of penicillin, victory over polio, organ transplants, coronary bypass surgery, artificial joints, MRIs and CAT scans, deciphering the human genome, and many more.
And we talked of the many roles my father occupied at various times in his life: flight surgeon, accomplished violinist, choir member, Rotary Club president, golfer, tennis player, pilot, hunter, farmer, builder, wood-worker, quick wit, and physician to generations of Indiana families. He was even, briefly in the 60s, a TV talk-show host!
In addition to it all -- and herein lies the reason for the Shakespearean headline above -- since my grandfather's death Dad reigned as the "patriarch" of our clan. When I mentioned this at the dinner somebody immediately pointed out that the title now devolves upon me. I tried to pass it off to cousin Steve or my Uncle Fred, both of whom are older and wiser than I, but as they are Smiths and not Showalters, the attempt to abdicate was denied.
The responsibilities are many, the shoes too big to fill. The crown is heavy and fits but awkwardly. I am not worthy, yet I will try.
Stuart
