There are many events that I'd rather not attend or be a part of.  Ridiculously obvious examples include any situations including President Bush or Sarah Palin (and an endless string of annoying celebrities) because I equate my attendance to becoming violently car sick.  But softer and more personal examples of  where I'd truly rather not be are weddings (unless the reception presents me with the opportunity to do LOTS of dancing in order to pass the time) and funerals.  I've never really liked either.  And I know that the two don't have a damn thing to do with each other, but that's not the point.  The point is that I'm not particularly comfortable in neither a wedding nor a funeral-- and that's really that.

However, of course, this is life, and life has made me do really nonsensical things at times.  I've spent a little something in the past for horrifically-pastel-hued garb for wedding ceremonies.  And four years ago, when my life was completely turned around and shaken like a really old, decrepit washer by my younger brother's funeral, I actually wore small black, pinching heels-- and not rubber soles-- to match the "nun" clothing draping the 5-feet between my calves and neck at his wake.  I just couldn't take the chance of having him make fun of me from the spiritual realm, I guess.  So I even had the director play his favorite his favorite Nirvana and Green Day tunes softly in the background.

This morning was one of those days in which I was to attend another funeral.  In Fort Lee.  At 10:30 AM.  I still had the same appropriate, black nun skirt and top hanging in my closet, the very ones unhappily reserved for days like this one.  But I had no un-holey stockings, so the bottom half of the outfit became ruled out immediately due to the cold weather.  

Instead, I settled for the usual top and a dark pair of non-black slacks and my warm, lined, non-black boots.  The earthy colors I wore to this funeral are not worth elaborating on since I did the best I could to protect my knees from humidity, frigid temperatures, snow, sleet, hail and more snow.  And I strongly doubted that my sweet, loving, wonderful grandmother cared about what I wore to her funeral.

My grandmother passed away on Sunday, December 14th.  She was ninety-three, diabetic (but amazingly healthy otherwise), half-Jewish and half-Jehovah's Witness.  In a nutshell, her religious paths were always a little scattered.  But in the end, she left us all rather smoothly, snug in her nursing home bed, with a serene smile on her face-- and that's what mattered. 

The problem was that grandma Esperanza (Spanish for "hope") slipped away just two minutes before my dad arrived in her room.  The nurse explained that she'd asked for him just before she died, and dad hadn't taken that so well.  He told me that "her cheeks were still warm" over the telephone and that he wished that he would have arrived sooner at her bedside.

"But, you know, I'm o.k.," he said to me today.  "I just know that I can't control these things.  And mom had a very full life."   

This was a very, very different attitude from one of four years ago.  My mother's death, after years of illness, in March of 2004 was one heavy matter to handle.  But my dad found it completely unfair and emotionally brutal to have buried his son just seven months later, in October.  And I sure as hell never had the audacity to tell him that it took me two years to even begin to understand why my brother, Elias, left so suddenly.  And soon.

"She also went very peacefully and comfortably," I added, hugging his elbow.
 
I also knew that the biggest, most painful experiences and hardships made the rest of all experiences and hardships less trying on our emotional systems.  And that didn't mean that we'd become insensitive and cold to bad news.  It meant that we'd be strengthened... and better prepared for bad news.

My dad nodded to that before pinning a black, nylon kippah over the bald spot on his head, something he hadn't done since I was about six and forced to sit quietly in (what has become a fading memory of) a temple.  At that time, my mother was so close to converting my brother and I to Catholicism, considering the adorable factor of a baptism-- followed by the adorable factor of all the other sacraments-- while my brother and I dreaded the day in which we'd become the oldest children ever to become baptized by our Heineken-chugging, Irish priest.  That meant that all of our relatives, friends, neighbors and our neighbors' loved ones would be present for the occasion.  And that meant that we'd have to wear putrid white-and-baby-blue suits and shoes in public.

My dad, Chris, I and several members of our family (including my uncle Lou, aunt Hilda, cousin Marcelo and a handful of cousins and one second-cousin I hadn't seen since I was about nine) sat before a kind rabbi who regaled us with grandma tidbits.  For thirty years, she was a wife.  For fifty years, she'd remained a widow, having raised six children (one of whom perished many years ago) on her own.  The rabbi continued with the names of my dad ("Jimmy"), aunt (Tulia), uncle (Lou)...

And that was it.  The names of my dad, aunt and uncle were the only three called out, and they weren't the only surviving children of the Steinberg clan.

"There's six of us," my determined aunt Tulia, dad's sister, belted out.  "There is Dora, and she's in Canada..."

"Six?" the rabbi responded.  "But we only went through three names!"

The rabbi wrote "Dora" down.

"And there's Rosa.  She's in Minnesota.  And Elias-- he's the youngest who'd perished many years ago.  That makes six children."

As the rabbi wrote all of these details down, I began to suspect that a long morning was upon us.

"She also had grandchildren," aunt Tulia continued.  "There's Peter and Esther and Mike and David and Marcelo and Deborah (that's me!) and Daphne and Gregory.  And don't forget her daughter-in-law, Judy, and son-in-law, Murphy..."

The rabbi jotted and jotted as quickly as he could.

"AND Chris!" Marcelo jokingly yelled from behind us.  "Chris is her great son-in-law.  Chris, where are you?  Step up to the front wit' yo' bad self!"

"Oh, geez," Chris said as I cracked up.

"And great-grandchildren, too!  There's Shelly and Tal and..." my aunt marched on.

When the list finally came to an end, the rabbi apologized for failing to mention at least eighteen additional surviving relatives' names.

"It's o.k.," most of us responded.

The rabbi continued with a couple of hebrew prayers and final words before wheeling my grandma into the crematorium.  He then asked if anyone wished to "watch".  

"No, no.  But thank you," I said, shaking his hand and then following my dad, Chris, and about 97% of our group out of the chapel and into the lobby, where I'd "watch" my aunt Tulia, cousin Mike and second-cousin Shelly walk into the crematorium.

I sat beside my dad and uncle Lou on an ivory cushy bench, listening to my uncle talk about his upcoming trip to Bolivia, my grandma's home country.  Per my grandma's wishes, he'd bring her ashes with him.  And while there, uncle Lou would purchase a beautiful urn for her.

Uncle Lou's gesture was, indeed, lovely and heartwarming.  Almost as lovely and heartwarming as the thought of my grandma reuniting with my grandpa and their youngest son... after fifty years.