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Four Funerals—and a Wedding
If you enjoy a good flick like I sometimes do—something
that’s light-hearted and fun—might I recommend one called
“Four Weddings and a Funeral?”
It’s not recent but neither is “Dr. Zhivago,” though I could
watch that time and again, which I have. And I haven’t seen
the last of “Four Weddings and a Funeral.”
In somewhat of a contrast, I experienced just the reverse in
one week. I attended four funerals in consecutive days
before an invitation to a wedding put me back on level
ground.
The first involved a man whose allegiance to Tufts
University remained unparalleled. Though he never married,
one eulogy had him connected to every student who ever
passed the Medford campus over the last 50 years. And many
of them—especially those of Armenian descent—graduated
because of his guidance and friendship.
En route to the cemetery, the motorcade deviated from its
course and proceeded around the track oval of the Baronian
Field House as one alumni mourner shouted out, “C’mon
Jumbos! One more touchdown for John!”
The second funeral involved a woman who worked as an
accomplished interior designer right up until the day before
her death. She, too, was active with her church and
community and always kept her family locked in her heart.
A year ago, knowing her condition was grave, her son took
her on an extended trip to Western Armenia, home of her
ancestors, and it was like a dream come true for the woman.
She retraced her family roots, visited the villages of her
forefathers, and lived another year beyond expectation.
One would like to think that such a journey gave the woman
an added jolt of energy or—in any regard—the inspiration to
forge ahead despite the adversity that plagued her life.
The very next day came the funeral of another man whose
allegiance to church and the cultural arts was unquenchable.
He was married to his music, owned a gorgeous tenor voice,
and made it a point to sing opera whenever the occasion
arose.
He had a stubborn streak that diluted the jovial side,
especially when he didn’t get his way. But the next day, all
was forgiven and he’d be your friend again. I guess you
could call him temperamental. I shall remember him as the
gent who would furnish me with copies of his CDs whether I
asked for them or not.
The fourth funeral left my own carcass dragging a bit. It
involved another pillar of the Armenian community, a man who
always vouched for unity and understanding for his race, and
rich with Masonic ritual. Nothing pleased him more than that
trip to Historic Armenia a few years ago, except perhaps his
family and wife. He never reneged when it came to a worthy
cause, either.
Why is all this so important? Because from death comes life.
From bereavement comes a semblance of joy and satisfaction.
In each of those situations, a life was extinguished, it’s
true. But it was a life worth celebrating and not grieving.
How many times have I attended a funeral where only a
smattering of guests showed up? In one case, no one except
the immediate family came to pay their last respects. What
type of legacy did this being leave behind? Had he no
friends, no business associates?
In Baronian’s case and that of a prominent musician earlier
this year, both wakes took place inside a church instead of
a funeral home, due to their scope. The crowd was so
immense, you could have left the line, toured the Freedom
Trail, and returned before viewing the casket.
My own father’s funeral was one for the books. He operated
an eating establishment and because many of his customers
were short on funds, they would run up a tab. “Cuff it,”
they would say. “I’ll take care of the bill later.”
Well, later never came and when his demise followed, all
those who had an outstanding credit account might have
emitted a sigh of relief. They didn’t even attend his
funeral and his kindness and charity were buried with him.
Oh, yes, the wedding. After all the remorse in those four
days, the final respects and stress of going from one wake
to the next funeral, a ray of sunshine intervened through
the cloud.
A former co-worker of mine with a grave disorder and the
urgent need for a kidney transplant informed me that his
stepdaughter was getting married.
He not only wanted me to attend but become a vital part of
the ceremony. “It would be a privilege if you could
photograph it,” he invited me. “That gives me every
incentive to beat this obstacle.”
I gave the guy a hug. “Give it hell, Mike!”
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