The Limo, Highway 1 and the Man in the Box

So from the beginning - well not from the very beginning, but a few days later - I've tried to be open to the funny stuff that happens, to the ironies that would make Michael grin in apprecation.

Michael was buried in St. Augustine, Florida, at San Lorenzo Cemetery, right off of Highway 1. I selected the grave without seeing it, while I was still here in Birmingham. Sister Nicole - whom I knew years ago - explained the layout of the cemetery, and gave me some choices when we talked on the telephone.

One of the choices was a site near Highway 1. At first, I thought, "Oh no. Let's do this in the back, further away, where it's quiet. What a lousy spot, right near a highway! How undignified!" But then I considered...that road was pretty important in Michael's life. He traveled on it quite a bit over many years. To school, to friends, to concerts, to races.. As one of his sisters pointed out, the NASCAR fan in him would probably appreciate it, too.

Not exactly funny, but a little irreverant and ironic, giving his body its final rest in that spot. I think it's okay. It might even be good.

There have been several times over the past weeks, when talking about these things to others, I've been so tempted to shrug and say, "Waddya gonna do?" Which is what Tony Soprano said at some point at every funeral he attended - and he attended a lot - which of course always amused Michael and which he would have appreciated. But I didn't say it. Aloud, that is.

I have never been directly involved in planning a funeral before, but my past experience on the edges of them had given me the idea that one of the services a funeral home provides is a serious car or two for immediate family  to follow the hearse from church to cemetery, so you're not 1) driving yourself in your grief and 2) driving your dented jalopy right behind the nice shiny hearse.

Well, this funeral home didn't. I hasten to say that the people there were very nice and did a great job, but this is just something they don't do. Maybe no one does it anymore. Maybe that was just in my imagination anyway.

I said, "So, we'll be driven?" And the guy said, "Oh, no, we don't do that, but we can get you a limo, if you like." 

Yes, please.

As I said, the funeral was in St. Augustine. Funeral at the Cathedral-Basilica, burial at San Lorenzo, then reception at another parish a little outside town.

(We couldn't do it at the Cathedral parish hall, because the parish hall is connected with the parish school, and diocesan directives prohibit any adults who haven't gone through background checks to be anywhere on the school campus during school hours...ah, modern times....)

So the issue was getting cars out to the parish so we could return afterwards. I stood in the lobby of the Hilton (a lovely hotel - too bad I couldn't enjoy it) - trying to sort of the logistics of this that morning, the morning I was to bury my husband.. and...I just...couldn't. It was too much. I couldn't figure it out, so I looked helplessly at my friend Dorothy who jumped in and immediately worked out who needed to get their cars out to the church and so on. The limo would meet them there, and then transport them back to the Cathedral in time for the beginning of the Mass.

A little bit later, Dorothy called me. "Amy...about the limo...."

It was a party limo.

It was black, at least, but it was, indeed,  a party limo. Shot glasses lined the ledges behind the seats, soft drinks filled little built-in coolers (no alcohol, unfortunately) and little pinlights lined the interior - flashing. Repeatedly. Flashing until Christopher finally figured out how to turn them off.

I think there was...a bit of surprise once we all crowded in, but I had to say, "Now look - Michael would find this hysterical. This would be a story that he would tell for years. And years. The party limo that took us to his funeral."

Heh.

I didn't have little Michael at most of the events. Not because I wanted to protect him, but because I had no idea what the little lunatic would bust out with.  In keeping with the theme, I'm sure his daddy would find anything he said very funny, but it might upset others, so I kept him away.

Except for the graveside service. That seemed like a safe bet.

He sat on one of his cousins' lap, a few seats down from me. Bishop Baker was doing a wonderful job, praying for "our brother Michael," "Michael our brother" and so on.

At one point, little Michael turned to his cousin and asked,

"Why are they talking about me?"

This would not only amuse Michael, but satisfy him, as well. One of his stated reasons for want to give his second son his name was that he wouldn't have to answer when "Michael!" was called. Harrumph. He also hoped that the baby would be born on his birthday, so that he wouldn't have to celebrate his own anymore - he missed that one by three days, though. (His is 11/16, little Michael born on 11/19)

One more thing.

At the graveside, as the others had dispersed,as the children were racing around, as children do whenever there is open space, as those gathered were talking on the grounds, near the cars - next to the...limo...I stood by myself next to his casket.

It was a beautiful wooden casket from St. Meinrad, where Michael had gone to school. When St. Meinrad started the business, Michael mentioned that he would like to be buried in one of them, so of course I complied - much sooner than I ever thought I'd have to. One of the nice features is that they have a recessed wooden cross in the lid, which is removable .You can see it hanging on our dining "room" wall here.

So I stood there, leaned on it, rested my head on it, trying to sort all of this out, praying for Michael, for us. Missing him.

When we lived in Fort Wayne, we took occasional trips to Detroit, either for its own sake or on the way to someplace else - usually Canada.  We hardly ever went to Detroit without making a trip to the Solanus Casey shrine - see this blog post, written about a month before Michael died - to find out why.

They have Fr. Casey's casket sort of exposed there. Not open, of course, but not buried, either. Like this. Yeah, exactly like this.

Whenever Michael would take his boys there, he would tell them that they were going to see "the man in the box." And he would tell them a bit about the Man in the Box. And we would all kneel and pray for a bit, and Michael (big Michael) would make such a big deal about the Man in the Box, jocular, but serious, making his point - that the Man in the Box was really still alive, he helped us and we could pray with him.

As I stood at Michael's grave, readying myself to say goodbye to his mortal remains, my hands on the smooth wood of his casket, I thought, quite suddenly, "Now you're the man in the box."

It almost made me laugh aloud, even as I was crying.

As I have thought about it since, it still strikes me as ironic and kind of funny in a sad way, but also prescient. For who knows how this all rests in their subconsciences, in the depths of their souls? I am so worried about this hole in their life, this void, and the challenge of teaching them to fill the void with God's presence above all as they go through life. Perhaps the Man in the Box is one way MIchael helped - is helping. Through those visits, even his joking references encouraged them to see that they live in the Communion of Saints. That they are not alone. That the Man in the Box is not gone, but lives, listens, wants to help, and they can join their hearts to him in prayer whenever they want.

So I gathered what strength I had and turned from the grave. Turned back to my crazy children who, like their father, will never pass up the opportunity be a smart-aleck, back to the party limo to ride up Highway 1, to keep living life on earth the best we can, carried along by the prayers of the man in the box until we can finally see him again.

Laughing.