There were two services on Saturday last. One dazzled the anointed and featured a public eulogy by no less than the President of the United States of America followed by interment of the recently deceased at Arlington National Cemetery.
The other concluded with Ian's flawless bagpipe rendition of Amazing Grace, wafting from the open chapel doors on a sweltering August afternoon. It was the final tribute of the day to his grandfather, a tailor by trade, who supported six kids and a wife and still managed to own his home. Even though the young tend to be clueless, it was fairly apparent to me even then that this was a significant measure of a man's character.
When we were vagrant yoots, George was an apparition who appeared out of the darkness when you least expected him, always with a smoke in hand, often with a beer. He never had much to say and I never realized that Paige was as close to his stepfather as he was. Funny how something like that completely eludes you.
I hadn't seen George in at least two decades and I was mildly surprised when El Jeronimo de Crow sent the news that he had passed. And then, much like a half million movie plots where funerals bring old friends together, five of us were there. Does art imitate life? Or is it the other way around?
Terry's mom fessed up that when we were kids she figured the lot of us we're bound for hell on a sled with greased runners.
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