If anyone is reading this, I hope they understand my absence since the day my father died. (That's still hard to type...)
On Friday, I began the long trip from Perry to Springfield, Illinois, where my father lived. My wife had to drive me 15 miles to Warner Robins to catch the 7:30 a.m. shuttle bus to the Atlanta airport. After a change of buses in Macon, I arrived in Atlanta after a two-hour ride. Next came a 33-seat American Connection flight to St. Louis for another two hours. Finally, I had to rent a car to go the remaining 100.6 (according to AAA) miles to Springfield. I drove up to the house I last lived in during the '70s about 4:30 p.m. Central time. Late February afternoons in central Illinois have one particular characteristic: COLD! (Especially when you've avoided them for about 30 years.) Adding to the poignancy of this trip was that this day would have been my father's 87th birthday. In fact, the birthday card I had put in the mail the day before he died was sitting on my stepmother's desk.
The house seemed strange without my father. I could think of only a short period in 1977 when my parents and sister (Aimee) were out of town for a bit when he hadn't been there. Some people came by, a friend of my stepmother, a high school friend of my sister... At one point I might have thought being alone at such a time was a good idea, but they provided comfort and friendship. My stepmother was unfamiliar with some of the items for my dad's uniform, since she had never seen him wear it. My sister and looked everywhere and while I could find his navigator wings and missile badge, his ribbons were nowhere to be found. Shirley suggested that I could put the wings and badge on his uniform at the church, but that was a bit too much and I said I'd let the funeral home people do it. And so to bed in a house much altered from when I lived in it and in a room that had been my sister's. (My old room was now Shirley's dressing room.)
Saturday morning dawned clear and cold, but not unbearably so. I rode with Shirley to her church, Central Baptist Church in downtown Springfield, across from the Governor's Mansion. The church was well arranged with my father's casket flanked by flowers from family and friends, airports in Illinois that he had worked with in his State job, and even from St. Christopher's in Perry (!). There was a display of his honors along with pictures of Dad and Shirley at their wedding in 1987, of a young Lt Davison from the '40s, and a painting of the church in Podington, England, near his WWII base.
The most difficult part for me was the open casket. I'm not a fan of open caskets. The technicians had done their job well and he looked better than when I saw him last summer, but he didn't look alive. Some spark was missing and I found it hard to look at what was left of the man who had been such a vital part of the first 52 years of my life.
Receiving friends, former co-workers, family members was emotionally easier but physically harder. Standing in place for two hours is difficult and by the end, my back and legs were very painful. I knew almost none of the people I was introduced to, in large part because of my 30-year absence from Springfield. I knew Aimee's friend Kim (the high-school friend mentioned above), who also had attended her husband's aunt's wedding. Coming here too showed how much she cares for my sister and I appreciated at least one familiar face. Many of Aimee's in-laws were there, but I had seen few of them since her wedding in 1991. I was struck by the near-reverence in which his former co-workers held him, one young woman even was saddened that she had only the chance to work for him for two weeks before his illness struck him down.
The service was well done. Although I missed some of the structure and ritual of the Episcopal Burial Office, the theology of the minister's message was well-expressed in a way that expressed his caring for our family. (In fact, all that Dr. Mills and his church did was tremendously helpful.) The eulogy was given by a retired Federal judge who had been one of Dad's friends. He discussed my father's WWII service, even reading Dad's description of one of his bombing missions. He described the many admirable qualities of my Dad's character and closed by saluting the flag-draped casket.
I escorted Shirley behind the casket as it was taken down the aisle to the "vestibule" (we would call it the "narthex") where the military honors would be rendered. I have seen them before and even assisted in a burial office at my church, but this was different. This was my father. The honors were performed movingly by an inter-service group of volunteers made up of veterans from the Springfield area. I stood at attention, even though I wore a suit, during the folding of the flag, the rifle volley and placed my hand over my heart during Taps. And then it was done.
A few thoughts at this point... I wore my suit because my uniform had mildewed and was not suitable for wear at such a ceremony. I would have felt my father's disappointment in me. But as I stood at the head of his casket, I did wish that I had been able to wear it that final time.
Also, while I can't fault the veterans' honor guard in any way, I was deeply disappointed that an Air Force honor guard from Scott AFB near St. Louis wasn't available. In fact, I was disappointed in the apparent lack of interest from the Casualty Affairs office at Scott when I contacted them. I plan to find out from my base's office whether this is now SOP for the death of retirees. If it is, while I understand the strain war and budget cuts have caused, something is horribly wrong if we place a low priority on honoring those who served before us. I may pursue that for a bit.
Finally, there were few truly dry eyes after the honors were completed, even among the younger people. My sister told me later that one of them expressed amazement at all my father had done. That is a reason why honoring them should be such a high priority and if we forget that, we are the losers, not those we should be honoring.
At the house, a catering had set out food for a gathering of family and close friends and neighbors. Again, I knew few of the people there, but it was a pleasant opportunity to unwind a bit from the emotions of the day.
Sunday morning dawned cold, gray, and very windy--10 degrees with a wind chill of -16. I had packed the night before so I could start the 100.6 mile trip to the St. Louis airport by 8, which I did. There was little traffic and I made good time. By the time I got to the St. Louis airport, the clouds had blown away, but the cold was still bone-chilling. That flight to Atlanta passed very quickly, the 1 hour 50 minute flight shortened to an hour and 15 minutes by the strong NW winds. We surprised the ground crew at Atlanta, who had to get someone to come operate the ramp so we could get off the plane. The temperature was in the 60s with a cooling wind, a relief after the midwest's reminder of why I moved south after high school. The bus ride to Warner Robins was uneventful and I was back home a mere 60 hours after I had left.
I told Shirley Saturday night that our parting from Dad was a grief we would always feel. When you first feel it, the pain is sharp and poignant and you wonder how you can go on. You do, though, because you must, and over time you become more accustomed to the loss and pain and you realize that the story of your life is not over yet. I do believe the parting caused by death is only temporary and in God's good time we will be reunited in a way and place we can't truly imagine.
Au revoir, Dad... We'll meet again someday.
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