Sitting Shiva for Dad

Our family funeral traditions often include an opportunity for family and friends to walk past the casket with the loved one prettied up, looking better than they did in life, or completely differently than they did in life. This might last over two days, with the second day ending with a service saying nice things about the dearly departed. Followed by a caravan to where the person is buried. 

This can vary a little bit. It often takes place about three days after the person dies, something I attribute to Jesus raising Lazarus on the third day (making sure the person is good and dead). 

Dad's service was held nine days later. We had a two-hour open casket viewing, followed by an hour-long service, a quick boxed lunch in the Fellowship Room, a 90-minute drive, a 20-minute burial, then an early dinner at a local restaurant. 

Conversely, my Jewish friends hold the service the very next day and sit Shiva for seven days in their home. Since learning about that tradition, I've told myself I would like to do the same after my parents pass.

However, in the era of political correctness I didn't want to use the term shiva, so I asked what I should use instead. A friend suggested informal gathering to share stories. This got so confusing, at the encouragement of my friends, I started to call it a shiva.

Friends came from different stages in my life. Some also went to the service. Just about everyone brought food. We did, as Lisa called it, prime the pump. We knew food was coming, but you have to feed the first ones. 

It was wonderful seeing people. My friend Sylvia from high school, met my friend Sylvia from an early job. They got along as well as I expected they would. 

Santa came, giving me the chance to
show him the pictures we put out at Christmastime. He was between two Christmas in July events.

After they left, we had tacos for dinner. I chose tacos because we don't have emotional attachment to tacos. Mom remembers Dad having one, and not liking it. It was no tears food.

People had a great time, as evidenced by their lack of ability to leave. Which was fine until they started to open food I had put away for the next day, and it snapped in my head that Don and I were the only ones cleaning up. I was also the only one to prepare the house and make the arrangements. We were the only ones to pay for the food.   

Today everyone decided to leave me alone. I'm due back with the family in an hour. Meanwhile, I am enjoying the peace and quiet.

I went to church this morning and broke down during the last stanza of "Precious Lord, Take me Home." As the bulletin had listed condolences to our family, those around me snapped to putting their arms around me. 

Precious Lord was sung at his funeral a scant two days ago.

...And then one day, I'll cross the river, I'll fight life's final war with pain. And then, as death gives way to victory, I'll see the lights of glory and I'll know he loves.

Oh, Jan, I don't know how you got through that knowing you chose it to honor your Marty who passed away not that long ago.

It felt good to be surrounded by much church family at that moment.

Hiding Kitties .... leave them alone!

Lucy Cat and Kitty Mimi are recovering from the trauma of having a house full of people. 

Mimi is back to hiding inside the piano no one plays. Lucy seems to be holding up better today. She knows we don't usually have company two days in a row. That was until the doorbell rang and she dashed back to her safe place.

Public service announcement to people visiting homes when there are anti-social pets: leave them alone!

My cousin's kids, along with an adult, decided to play "look for the cats." Even after I said, the upstairs is off limits. Even after saying, the cats are hiding. Perhaps I should have been stronger aid thrown the family out the window, or at least ushered them downstairs. Instead, I went to the bathroom.

I did lose my patience level after spending two hours cleaning up when my sister decided to open a closed box for another treat. 

Meanwhile, Lucy feeling unsafe peed in our bathroom rather than risk going downstairs, past more guests, to use the litter box.

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest as I enjoy my blessedly quiet house.

Dad's Eulogy

Nearly a decade ago I spoke at Don's mom's funeral, a woman we lovingly called Honey Bunny. This weekend I sent my dad out in a similar fashion.

Here are my words:

Hi, I’m Jacquelyn, Dawn and John’s oldest child. I’m going to share a few words about Dad.

When these first thoughts flew into my head, he was still very much alive. The next day he began a sudden 24-hour decline.

But I didn’t know that on Monday night when I started to write this up as a blogpost.

All I knew was I was in Maine on my first church mission trip. Instead of hearing God’s voice, I kept hearing my dad’s. I want to share a few of those dad-isms with you today.

Dad’s voice was crystal clear as we waited an hour until we were given our orders for the day. In my head he said it's the hurry up and wait game. 

Yup, dad, hurry up and wait. We had to rouse at 6:30 am to have breakfast at 7:15 am to meet in the lobby at 8:45 am to be at the church at 9 am. We thought we were driving someplace, only to find out our half of the group was to stay put and pull weeds and scrape paint. The other half drove to a different site to do carpentry and install cabinets.

The next time Dad reached out to me was as I was pulling those weeds -- a task I procrastinate for as long as possible at home. But a task dad used to do regularly. I could hear him say: make sure you get the roots.

On the other side of the property, I was moved to the scraping paint part of the project. I was reminded that each summer, growing up in Paramus, dad scraped the paint on the wood siding to prep it for its annual paint job. One of the 300 pictures in the slide show is of my dad scraping paint or painting the house in Paramus. Trust me, he did it a lot more often than the pictures indicate, but he lived many decades in the pre-digital era when film was precious, or, conversely, we had one or two pictures we had to take before the roll could be developed. I see you nodding, most of you remember those days. I suspect the painting and yard work pictures fell in the category of finishing up the roll.

Anyway, the side of the house that saw the most sun was painted annually. The other three sides were painted on a rotating basis. Or so I remember.

I do not remember him ever inviting us to join him to scrape the house -- a skill at that moment in Maine I wished he had imparted. We live in a house with aluminum siding that never needs to be scraped. 

Before I even left for Maine, he said don't forget your poncho. It was always poncho, never raincoat or umbrella. I commented there was no rain in the forecast. He said it will rain. Wouldn't you know it, it rained and my poncho was back in my room! 

~~~

As I sit in my office with the window open on what my dad would call a top ten day, planning to have some sippy and cookies in a few minutes, more dad-isms bounce around my head:

On a long highway drive, get behind a truck and let him lead the pace. Advice I disagree with ever since I saw a tire break on an 18-wheeler I was behind just moments earlier. I was grateful I had changed lanes, but I still heard the advice as I drove home early to be with family.

Always bring a book, because you don't know how long mom will be (or how long you'll have to wait). Advice I remembered yesterday when waiting at DMV.

The GPS also channeled my dad on the long drive home. As I paid the first toll on the Garden State Parkway it asked, “do you want a faster route with tolls?” For whatever reason I agreed, even though I doubted it would be easier or even faster.

The GPS directed me to Exit 163, the Route 17 to Route 4 exit through backroads in Paramus to Route 80 to the New Jersey Turnpike.

In other words: through the neighborhood where our parents raised us, past the airport where he worked for four decades, past the neighborhood where Dad grew up, past the neighborhood where he lived as a newlywed, to the commute he had the last couple of years he worked at Teterboro Airport. I had already passed a train in New York (albeit a commuter train and not a freight train) and was now driving under the jets at Newark Airport on the way to the home my parents have shared for the past two decades.

It was the This is Your Life, John Koetting drive.

Tomorrow you are all invited to our house, and to their house on Sunday, to share more dad-isms and more stories. Thank you for being here today, either in person or online.

~~~

Aunt Barbara, dad's baby sister, and Ashley, Dad's eldest granddaughter, also spoke. Barbara was tasked with talking about her brother growing up, and Ashley was to speak about Dad as a grandfather, as Papa John, or simply Papa. I was to cover him as a dad.

Barbara mentioned Dad was a dreamer throughout school, and she has his report card filled with C's and D's to prove it. This prompted me to add one last Dad-ism. I looked at Ashley and said, you know this one: Study hard and get good grades. 

The service is visible on the Allentown Presbyterian Church YouTube page.

The slide show of images can be found here.

Morning Archaeology Mourning Find

I am convinced, God has a sense of humor.

Dad passed away on July 15th. A week later I was at Newlin Grist Mill digging when a black, glass bead was found. We have found a lot of buttons lately, more than typical, as if a child found mom's button collection and played with them, perhaps even buried them or hid them in the add-on room before it was collapsed. One week we found six buttons -- all different. Keith, our site archaeologist, said about 20 of these black glass buttons have been found here.

Rather than saying, what a nice button, please put it in a medicine bottle, he said, let's talk about the button.

As great teachers often do to engage their students, he starts with a question: why do you think we have found so many black buttons?

I knew the answer, but also knew I didn't have it in me to talk about Victorian mourning rituals only a week after dad's passing, two days before his funeral, so I kept quiet.

Back in the late 19th century people did not have many clothes. They may have only had one outfit to work in, and a Sunday best outfit. Wealthier people had more, obviously. Poorer people aspired to emulate the wealthy classes. The wealthier classes went into full mourning when their loved ones died. They wore black from head to toe. The poorer classes did what they did, including changing buttons on their shoes from white to black. These are shoes that required button hooks to attach.

The trend ended around WWI when so many people were dying the pendulum swung to partying in the Roaring Twenties.

But that day, a button was found, and a discussion about Victorian mourning practices ensued. As I commented on my pink skin guard shirt, Keith saw beyond that to the black tank top I wore underneath, pointing out I was wearing black.  

Happies and Crappies

Each night we gathered as a small group to talk about our day. It was a chance to process, which is what I do later when I blog. The immediacy was nice. It was also great hearing about each others' days. We don't take enough time as a culture to do that.

Part of the time we went around an shared "happies and crappies." I just love that way of succinctly thinking about the day. Any day.

Rather than risking breaking any confidences, I'll share my "happy and crappy" from yesterday. 

I'll start with crappy: nearly running out of gas and being struck with indecision on how to fix it.

Happy: there were several, but one tied to the crappy. I made it to my usual gas station where I had a conversation with the gas station attendant. He saw my Got French bumper magnet and asked if I spoke French. I said un petit peu, the last time I admitted to speaking French to an ebony-skinned man he spoke to me in Haitian,  which is akin to speaking American English and listening to someone from Scotland. This man is from Ghana. I had a lovely conversation with him about how, after 34 years in the United States, he is soon returning to Ghana. 

People in the other 49 states where they have to pump their own gas can't appreciate the magic that comes from connecting with someone in that simple moment. 

We are the last state where it is illegal to pump your own gas. 

I hope that never changes.  

What Do I Need?

What do you need? Is both the most loving and overwhelming comment to make to someone as they are mourning. 

I get that now in ways that I did not understand before Dad passed away.

The friends reaching out the most are the ones who have gone through it. They understand. They feel helpless. It brings back memories for them of how awful, how numbing the first few days are. Helping me is their way of giving back for all those who helped them through those days. I probably helped some of them. Or at least I hope I was helpful.

On the calendar it has already been five days. In my reality it is a giant blur.

What do I need?

If you look at my practical to do list, I need to clean three bathrooms, vacuum, change sheets, clean spaces so family can sleep over,  wash more sheets, empty the trash, pull weeds so I feel the house looks nicer, vacuum, RSVP to the jury duty notice I received, pay my VISA bill, gather paperwork for my REAL ID appointment, fill out forms for new doctor, talk to the caterer, reach out to my uncle to explain how to get from the airplane to the train (or offer to pick him up), etc.

If you look at my fun to do list, I want to blog, make pesto, dig on Wednesday, make a photo album about the first half of the year, read a book, research what to do when we go to Lisbon next week, start packing for vacation, etc.

Digging deeper, I need someone to make small decisions for me so I can make bigger ones. 

Last night I was driving around trying to figure out where to get gas because my tank was on empty. Do you see the irony in that statement? Do I pull into the small station that is full with a half dozen motorcycles and no space for me to pull in that's on the left side of the road? Do I get gas in Pennsylvania where I have to pump or do I have enough gas to return to New Jersey? In the end I drove back to New Jersey, went to my usual station, and had a lovely conversation with an ebony-colored man from Ghana who has lived in the United States for 34 years, has ten grandchildren in the States, and is returning home to Ghana to live out the rest of his life. 

It was nice talking to someone who does not know about dad. That's something I could use, conversation about anything else. 

I want someone to take my phone away (ideally while walking away so it thinks I got a lot of steps in) and not let me get distracted by it for an hour, or half an hour, or ten minutes, or five, or even one. 

I want someone to put food in front of me and tell me to eat it. Not ask what I want to eat, just take care of it and wash up afterwards.

I want someone to rotate laundry because they see it needs doing. Not ask first. Just fold, and rotate. 

I want someone who can anticipate my needs before I do. Not someone who makes me choose a time to get together, or a place, or a what to do, just show up here and I'll take care of it. Or notice the weeds are growing and take care of them without asking for tools. That's probably what I could use the most.

I want someone to plan out the Lisbon leg of the trip and hand it to me in a way I can just jump in and follow the itinerary. I already have a hotel, transportation, and a show planned. I just need the what to see in three days version of it all.

The right friend would come over an pull weeds with or for me. Who is that?

The right friend would just show up with a hug and some ice cream. Or not because then I'd have to decide to open the door.

While writing might feel like procrastination, I've learned it is the way I process. It helps me to move to the next item on the to do list.

It Was Time

About 15 months ago Don decided to grow a beard. I subconsciously told myself I wasn't going to cut my hair until he got rid of his beard. I also decided I was tired of paying a lot of money every six weeks to maintain the color and shape. As I'm not working, I have no one to impress.

It ended up getting out of control. He shaved his beard in March and I forgot to cut my hair in celebration.

I liked the length, but it was getting knotty (and a little bit naughty), and the ends were splitting. It was time.

Rather than going to Christine my long time hairdresser whom I ghosted in March 2025, I headed to the Great Clips where Don goes. Seeing absolutely no line I walked in and asked for a haircut. Luce had me in a chair with a drape around my neck before I had a chance to second-guess the decision. Fortunately I love it.

I'm getting a new drivers license photo taken in a week and wanted to look a little better.