Certainly, some of you don't care to read about it, but since some deem me a
writer for whatever strange reasons, I am going to write about Joe's funeral.
Because I need to.
It was cold but clear in Dallas today. Temperatures in the 40s, with a
biting wind. The sun was out, framed by thin cirrus clouds. It was a pretty
day.
I got to the funeral home early, in a borrowed car. I didn't care to have
any mourners see a motorcycle on this particular day. After a few minutes
more and more people showed up. I literally didn't recognize several riding
buddies who were in suits, cleaned up. People kept coming, and we moved
inside as the parking lot filled and the cold air began to bite. None of the
motorcycle folk showed up on bikes.
Inside the funeral home, there was the usual shuffly milling about and quiet
conversation. Hugs were offered to and received from men I'd never
considered embracing before. Not surprisingly, many of the people gathered
were smiling as they related Tales of Joe. I spoke with my motorcycle
friends, four of whom were pallbearers. The other two pallbearers were
family members.
The casket sat open at the front of the room. Joe lay there, looking as
normal as a dead person can. He looked almost exactly like the Joe I knew,
except he was wearing makeup, not wearing his ever-present blue do-rag, and
not smiling. I realized then that I wasn't sure that he was ever without a
smile, with the exception of the serious look he'd get while discussing
"differing opinions" with police officers or other bikers. Black hair,
mustache and goatee, and a suit (never seen that either). Though I am not a
connoisseur, I must say the casket was a beautifully crafted gray model with
polished, machined hardware. Joe was inside, looking rather mellow, with no
observable suggestion of the trauma that had taken him from us.
After viewing Joe, which frankly creeped me out, I made my way back to some
friends and we milled around until the funeral directors ushered us into the
service. It was standing room only. People crowded the pews and lined the
back wall and spilled out of the room into the lobby in overflow. Muted
coughs and sniffles punctuated the pre-service silence.
I was honestly fine until the family was brought in, when I saw Joe's face in
his relatives', all of whom I've never met. Then the waterworks began a bit.
The service began with some perfunctory readings from Old Testament
scripture. I coasted through this, paying more attention to Joe's
hyperactive toddler nephew. Some may complain about small children moving
about, making noise and, well, being small children in such instances, but as
a sweet old lady near me said, the boy was so angelic. The very young do not
know why they are there, and have no idea why all the grownups are so somber.
They only know that this is another strange grown up thing they don't want
to be at. When Kevin grows up he will probably not remember the service at
all. He may, however, as if viewing the world from under a lake's surface-
blurred, disjointed, and difficult to picture- remember his Uncle Joe that
used to baby-sit him, perhaps sitting him on the motorcycle and making
"vroom-vroom" noises. Watching the very young not mourn reminds me more of
the lessons of mortality than watching the old.
Next in the service a more likable preacher began by noting that he didn't
know Joe very well, but felt he knew him more after sharing reflections with
the family. He shared with us things that I also didn't know, and it let me
know Joe better. I learned that as a little boy, Joe ran away on his Big
Wheel, and was accosted by the police making good time (for a small child on
a Big Wheel) down a main thoroughfare. Some things never change. I learned
he once took apart the hardware on the door to escape from church after he
had been there what he felt was too long. I learned he had a pilot's
license. I was reminded that Joe had a degree in Mechanical Engineering,
something I first learned from his obituary.
I also heard the preacher relate what I did know of Joe. Joe was always
smiling and could always make people laugh. I was reminded of his way of
trying to convince others of his ideas, such as talking (or trying to talk)
his way out of tickets. I heard Joe described as a tinkerer. As a free
spirit. As a risk taker. A good guy.
We, the gathered Family and Friends of Joe, were told that in an occasionally
cruel world we often ask "What if?" What if this didn't happen? What if I
might have said something? What if Joe wasn't a risk taker and didn't like
motorcycles? In this world of what ifs, we were told, one thing is certain.
If Joe had been a sedate, suit and tie guy that didn't live freely and didn't
take risks and didn't ride (too fast) on motorcycles, he wouldn't have been
the Joe we all knew. And we would be the poorer for it.
The service concluded with the usual prayers, and curiously, the playing of a
thoroughly average cover of the "Did you ever know you were my hero" song. I
am not certain, but I am reasonably sure that if he were able, Joe would
might have cracked open the box and sat up and said "What the **** is this?"
Perhaps it should have been something else. "I Can't Drive 55" is
ill-fitting for a funeral, and "[Going up to the] Spirit in the Sky" is too
campy. I dunno.
After the service, we stood around for a while and mumbled and hugged. The
procession left for the graveside, but I elected to sit that one out. My
buddy Mark and I sat in his van and talked about life and Joe and the
accident and nothing at all at the same time.
The clouds had rolled in a bit by now, the sun hid, and the cold hit harder.
Interesting how it seems to always happen.