stopped. I hesitate to say her death was beautiful, because it means I have to miss her now, but it was.
My family asked me to write and read her eulogy. Blessing from the family, the Catholics now call it. I call it what it is. Of course I said yes, I would be honoured, and I was.
I wrote about the values the tiny little Cockney/Irish/Roma woman had lived and died by, and raised us all up to believe in. Love your family, work hard, save your money, have faith, and be grateful for what you have. I worked really hard on the eulogy. I wanted to do justice to her memory, to honour everything she was. There were over four hundred people at the service, and not a dry eye among them when I was finished.
Up at the graveyard, after the internment, I hugged strangers and shook hands. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by Catholic priests. They were being uncommonly nice to me, the queer granddaughter in the shirt and tie. Maybe they make special allowances in the case of a death in the family, I thought. Or maybe they were still hoping to save my soul. The bishop hugged me, and then held both of my hands in his too-soft ones.
“Excellent job, young man. Your grandmother would have been very proud of you today, son. Strong work, young fellow.”
My mother heard him too. I saw her freeze. Waiting.
“Thank you, Father,” I said. That was why he seemed to like me so much. He didn’t know who I really was.
The bishop caught up with me again at the reception, back at the funeral home. We were both leaned over the cheese platters, when he addressed me a second time.
“Once again, I must say, you are a gifted orator. A natural, even. Have you ever considered the priesthood?”
This time it was my Aunt Nora within direct earshot, and she stopped in mid-bite, half a baby carrot removed from her mouth and dropped on a small paper plate. Her eyes met mine, and she tried not to wince.
I took a deep breath. Thought about my beloved gran, about how much she loved the Church, and respected the bishop. He seemed like a nice enough guy.
I’m not going to lie and say that one hundred wise-ass quips didn’t run through my head and gather on my tongue. They did. But what counts is what I actually said.
“No, Father, I have to admit, I have never considered the priesthood. But thank you again for the compliment.”
The bishop nodded, and everyone around us relaxed and resumed eating and talking.
I like to think my gran would have been real proud of me.
Three: That Boy
Red Sock Circle Dance
August, I974 † Whitehorse, Yukon
FIVE YEARS OLD AT THE QUANLIN MALL, Saturday shopping, and I was holding open the swing door for my mom and the cart. I remember I had half a cinnamon candy stick in my mouth and a red baseball hat with the plastic thing in the back pushed through a hole that was smaller than the smallest hole in the strap, a hole I had to make myself with the tip of a heated bobby pin.
So the rest of the strap stuck oddly out from one side of the back of my head, but I didn’t care, because it was my Snap-On-Tools hat that my dad had given me, just handed it right over to me when the guy at the tool place gave it to him, he was buying rivets or concrete pins or something, and the hat said Northern Explosives too, in black block letters in an arch over the hole in the back part, and come to think of it, what I wouldn’t do now for that hat.
So enough about the hat, this American tourist sees me holding the door open, and of course he assumes it’s for him, so he won’t bump his cameras together pushing past his belly to open it for himself, and he steps through the door, right in front of my mom and her groceries.
He thanks me down his nose in heavy Texan “Thank you, son,” and sucks more fresh Yukon air through his teeth. He is about to speak to me again, to meet the people, to engage in a little local colour, in the form of a polite little boy, and perhaps, via a patronizing conversation with him, get to meet his
My family asked me to write and read her eulogy. Blessing from the family, the Catholics now call it. I call it what it is. Of course I said yes, I would be honoured, and I was.
I wrote about the values the tiny little Cockney/Irish/Roma woman had lived and died by, and raised us all up to believe in. Love your family, work hard, save your money, have faith, and be grateful for what you have. I worked really hard on the eulogy. I wanted to do justice to her memory, to honour everything she was. There were over four hundred people at the service, and not a dry eye among them when I was finished.
Up at the graveyard, after the internment, I hugged strangers and shook hands. Suddenly I found myself surrounded by Catholic priests. They were being uncommonly nice to me, the queer granddaughter in the shirt and tie. Maybe they make special allowances in the case of a death in the family, I thought. Or maybe they were still hoping to save my soul. The bishop hugged me, and then held both of my hands in his too-soft ones.
“Excellent job, young man. Your grandmother would have been very proud of you today, son. Strong work, young fellow.”
My mother heard him too. I saw her freeze. Waiting.
“Thank you, Father,” I said. That was why he seemed to like me so much. He didn’t know who I really was.
The bishop caught up with me again at the reception, back at the funeral home. We were both leaned over the cheese platters, when he addressed me a second time.
“Once again, I must say, you are a gifted orator. A natural, even. Have you ever considered the priesthood?”
This time it was my Aunt Nora within direct earshot, and she stopped in mid-bite, half a baby carrot removed from her mouth and dropped on a small paper plate. Her eyes met mine, and she tried not to wince.
I took a deep breath. Thought about my beloved gran, about how much she loved the Church, and respected the bishop. He seemed like a nice enough guy.
I’m not going to lie and say that one hundred wise-ass quips didn’t run through my head and gather on my tongue. They did. But what counts is what I actually said.
“No, Father, I have to admit, I have never considered the priesthood. But thank you again for the compliment.”
The bishop nodded, and everyone around us relaxed and resumed eating and talking.
I like to think my gran would have been real proud of me.
Three: That Boy
Red Sock Circle Dance
August, I974 † Whitehorse, Yukon
FIVE YEARS OLD AT THE QUANLIN MALL, Saturday shopping, and I was holding open the swing door for my mom and the cart. I remember I had half a cinnamon candy stick in my mouth and a red baseball hat with the plastic thing in the back pushed through a hole that was smaller than the smallest hole in the strap, a hole I had to make myself with the tip of a heated bobby pin.
So the rest of the strap stuck oddly out from one side of the back of my head, but I didn’t care, because it was my Snap-On-Tools hat that my dad had given me, just handed it right over to me when the guy at the tool place gave it to him, he was buying rivets or concrete pins or something, and the hat said Northern Explosives too, in black block letters in an arch over the hole in the back part, and come to think of it, what I wouldn’t do now for that hat.
So enough about the hat, this American tourist sees me holding the door open, and of course he assumes it’s for him, so he won’t bump his cameras together pushing past his belly to open it for himself, and he steps through the door, right in front of my mom and her groceries.
He thanks me down his nose in heavy Texan “Thank you, son,” and sucks more fresh Yukon air through his teeth. He is about to speak to me again, to meet the people, to engage in a little local colour, in the form of a polite little boy, and perhaps, via a patronizing conversation with him, get to meet his
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