Going My Way? by Carol Wells
It is a bit disconcerting at times when realizing you've earned a reputation. Mine is for "always getting lost" with some people who no longer find it odd for me to apologize on being late due to, you guessed it, somehow getting lost.
George Washington and others get the prestigious past tense notations of "... slept here" or "... was here". Me? Any historical significance of where I chanced upon visiting could humorously but simplistically summed up as "Carol got lost here."
We met Anna-Marie through my oldest daughter's participation in a Philadelphia-area string band. She succumbed to cancer in November and the string band planned a sentimental gesture of playing some of her favorite songs at the wake.
As my luck would have it, the evening before the funeral, I managed to become lost resulting in my daughter and I arriving at the funeral home with around 15 minutes remaining for a viewing. Odds were already 50-50 in favor of us getting lost since it was not the first time I exhibited flawed navigational skills as, a few weeks prior, my daughter and I found ourselves 45 miles from our intended destination before calling someone for directional assistance.
Two streets identically named, within the same area, is not foreign concept to my daughter or I. For instance, in Indiana we once resided in Fountaintown, which, although a speck on a map, has two Main Streets identical in length as they run parallel to each other. Only distinction between these two came from their tacked on directional names of East or West. However, this particular New Jersey town, which bordered another, had two Main Streets lacking hints to differentiate them and I selected the wrong one and violá - we went on an unplanned tour of that area.
Morning of the funeral, another tendency repeated itself: running behind schedule. My daughter, after placing her saxophone in the back seat, suggested for us to go directly to the church as she estimated we would not arrive at the funeral home in time for the final viewing.
During our drive, the string band's plans helped to spark casual discussion about various funeral customs in different regions or within families. Which our discussion helps in explaining why my daughter or I, upon entering the church parking lot, didn't question it when a gentleman motioned us to line-up with the other cars. "Well, this is different," I commented, while positioning our car behind a white one, "I've never seen them lining up the cars before the funeral."
"Makes sense when you think about it," my daughter replied with a casual shrug of her shoulders while scanning the parking lot for other individuals from the string band or their vehicles.
A priest walked over to enter one of the parked cars. "Are you certain the funeral was at noon," I asked when looking at the car clock's display of 11:30 AM.
"I thought that was the time," she replied slowly watching the priest close the car's door. "But that's a priest ... "
"You probably got it mixed up somehow," I said as the funeral procession started moving.
"Must've," she looked around again, "I don't see any of the band members' cars but they have to be here. Maybe they car pooled?"
Logic dictated us to follow the procession exiting the church's parking lot to proceed up Main Street then down a couple of side streets before nearing a cemetery nestled at the end of a quiet tree-lined road. "Uh, Mom, how could someone cut out of a funeral procession without looking odd?"
"I don't think one can without drawing some attention," I replied. "Particularly if in the middle of a procession traveling on a narrow street. Why?" Yes, I hoped to hear something to dispel the feeling of "Oh no, I did it again?"
"Because I don't think we are following Anna-Marie's hearse."
"How do you figure that? There's a hearse, cars flagged as being part of a funeral procession … and let's not forget the priest."
"Yes, but we would not be going to a cemetery. Anna-Marie is being cremated," my daughter said whilst sharing a snippet of just-remembered information.
"You sure," I asked as we turned into the cemetery.
"Pretty sure."
"I think it would help to be a bit more sure," I said.
My daughter rolled down her window and got the attention of a gentleman who was directing the cars. "Excuse me ... is this the funeral procession for Anna-Marie?" His puzzled expression had "pretty sure" becoming "more sure". My daughter said, "Whoops, sorry, we followed the wrong hearse," then the man, and some others, curiously watched as I ended our participation in the funeral procession.
"See, told you I doubted it could be done," I replied in reference to her earlier question.
We backtracked and, upon re-entering the church's parking lot, my daughter worries abated when recognizing several vehicles. The priest? It slipped our minds about some parishes having more than one.
After Anna-Marie's funeral, people shared directions for the wake. My daughter knew of a shortcut she had noticed during our erroneous participation in a prior funeral procession, but no one wanted to trust this information based on how we came to know about the shortcut. Wonder why?
About This Story's Author:
© 1999-2006 Carol Wells; Notation: Irish-American String Band's 2005 Mummers Parade performance is dedicated to the memory of Anna-Marie.
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They say such nice things about people at their funerals that it makes me sad to realize that I'm going to miss mine by just a few days.
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