June 25, 2006 – Luby’s Cafeteria

June 25, 2006 – Luby’s Cafeteria

It’s close to 1:00 PM on Friday February 3rd, 2006. We have just come from the burial of my mother Trinidad at Ft Bliss National Cemetery in El Paso Texas. The “we” include Dad; my younger sisters DD and EV and EV’s daughter CB and sergeant major significant other PV; my eldest sister SY and her husband BB; my wife IM and daughter ME; and Dad’s housekeeper EA. We had invited all those attending thMom’s funeral to join us for lunch at Luby’s Restaurant at 1010 Chelsea Street near its intersection with Montana Avenue. When we arrive in three different cars. Luby’s is teeming with a lunch crowdt and our group has added to the crowd. Surprisingly, my brother DG, who arrived ahead of us, has gotten the restaurant staff to set up a part of the cafeteria with tables to contain the over 100 guests joining us for lunch.

To give you an appreciation of the challenge accommodating all our guests, I’ll describe Luby’s, a New York Stock Exchange listed company, named for its founder Bob Luby who started the chain in 1947 with one cafeteria in San Antonio, Texas. Now, it’s a 128-unit chain with restaurants in Texas, Oklahoma, Louisiana, Arkansas, and Arizona. It’s cafeteria style dining, with a line that reminds me of my childhood lunchroom at Travis Elementary School, close by our house at the intersection of Lincoln Avenue and Stevens Street in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of El Paso. At the start of the line you grab a tray and silverware and walk down a long line with every sort of prepared dish for you to choose from, several varieties of chicken, fish, beef, and vegetables dishes. Point to the one you want and the server behind the counter dishes it up for you. At the end of the line you collect the dessert and drink of your choice and after the cashier rings you up, you start looking for a seat. DG had gotten all of our guests to form one line and instructed the casher to put every meal from our line on one tab. As each guest left the line, DG pointed him or her to the seating area that the restaurant had set up to hold the group. When we arrived, DG stopped the line and let us cut in front of the queue and we joined the throng assembling their meal. It took 20 minutes for everyone to be served and soon the room was packed with our guests eating and engaging in animated conversation. The cafeteria staff had strung square tables together forming one long table running from one side of the restaurant to the other. They had run a second shorter row of tables together to intersect the longer run about midway forming a “T” with a short post and a wide top.

My sister DD had the presence of mind to take pictures and the gathering is captured in 34 pictures of individuals, couples, and groups. Dad and Father Ben, two bespectacled older men, pose in one shot, the teeth-full smiling priest having traded his vestments for a stylish sweater that resembled a quilt stitched together with a wide variety of different patterned cloth—Joseph and his multi-colored coat springs to mind. Dad attired in his Burlington Coat Factory black suit with white shirt and bolo tie, is also smiling but sans teeth, his right hand in front of him resting on the cane he uses to get around. His head is cocked slightly back and he has a self-assured smile of a man putting on a brave face. HM and PG, two of Mom’s closest friends are pictured in another photo. The former, wheelchair bound with the thin frail physical appearance suggesting she would break into countless pieces if she fell, dispels that suggestion by a steel-stern look that dares the world to try to subdue her. The latter is a fashion plate from the blue fedora on her head to the stylish shoes Imelda Marcos would have envied, her blue knit sport coat over a solid blue dress a contrast with HM’s white polka dot blue dress covered with a beige button sweater. PG is the equal of HM in willful assertiveness and determination to have things her way. PG’s mischievous quick-wit and sharp tongue contrasts with HM, whose emotional steady state seems to be displeasure—though for my mother she always reserved a warm smile. A third photo catches Father Ben’s sister LG—long-time friend of Mom and Dad—and her daughter MG. As arthritis confined LG to a wheelchair a number of years ago, MG sacrificed her hope for a family of her own to become her mother’s companion and caregiver. I’m reminded of the Oscar Wilde story I read to my daughters when they were children called “The Happy Prince” about a gold encrusted statue of a prince and a swallow. It’s a story of selfless devotion that you would not think could be penned by someone as irreverent as Oscar Wilde. Another picture captures the next generation of Mom’s family, my sisters DD, SY and husband BB, EV and significant other PV; my wife IM; and my brother DG. As our parents age and slowly steal away from us, we’re next to assume the bulwark sheltering our progeny against the relentless progress of time.

Now that I’m older I’ve looked back on the still and motion pictures taken of past times like this and I’m aware of how illusive is life. It exists for a moment and as soon as that moment passes, another one takes its place. In the moment it took for Mom to draw her last breath, life with her in it ceased to be and in the next moment life without her became what is. The luncheon drew to a close with each guest offering us their condolences as they took their leave. When the last guest departed, we fought with DG over who was picking up the bill, finally allowing him to win. We took Dad home to begin adjusting to life without Mom. The Filipino community had already made plans for a Novena for Mom that would go for nine days, beginning on Sunday. On each of the nine days, a prayer service led by a priest would be held either at Dad’s place or at the home of a friend. The services would help Dad come to terms with his grief. PG, the leader of the community, had orchestrated Mom’s Novena: recruited the priests to participate and assigned the homes where each service would be held. Filipino women know how to mourn.

The afternoon passed slowly with SY and BB making their goodbyes as they left for the airport to catch their Southwest flight back to the San Francisco Bay Area. DD spent time packing her things in preparation for an early 6:00 AM flight Saturday morning back to Boston's Logan Airport. As the sun was beginning to drop in the west, EV, DD, ME, IM, and I decided to drive to the cemetery to see if the funeral home had placed the flowers from the service earlier in the day on Mom’s grave as we had been promised. Piling in Dad’s white Uplander we drove to the gravesite just as the sun’s descent was nearing the top of the Franklin Mountains. Disembarking, we found Mom’s fresh covered grave awash in flowers. In place of the white tombstone was a plastic-fronted, gray metal marker measuring eight inches wide by six inches high containing a white government form with Mom’s name spelled in capital letters. Next to Mom’s grave was the headstone marking the grave of our youngest sister, Corinne Ann, born July 13, 1955. It was the first time I had ever seen Corinne’s grave, and I felt a pang of guilt for having waited so long. I tried to picture her as the 50-year old she would have been had she not died within an hour of her birth, a life unlived. We laid flowers from Mom’s abundant bouquet on her bare grave.

By the time evening came we decided to go out for a drink at a neighborhood bar where Friday evening was Karaoke night. At about 7:00 CB, DD, EV and her sergeant major PV, IM and I all piled into the country and western bar where Tequila could be ordered from the bottle with the bartender saving a shot glass by pouring the measure directly into the patron open mouth—single, double, or triple. Who needs shooters? We all passed preferring the traditional method of imbibing to the more colorful local one: margaritas for the ladies, beer for PV, and a really bad glass of red wine for me. We found a high circular table in front of the bar and rounded up enough bar stools to accommodate us. The band for the evening had set up in a corner near the front of the building opposite the bar, which sat perpendicular to the front. The band’s repertoire was sixties and seventies, mostly country and western and rockabilly. It was ME's intent to participate in karaoke with her signature song “Crazy”, the Patsy Cline classic. As soon as the master of ceremony for the evening, a middle age woman in jeans, a cowboy shirt and boots asked for volunteers ME was on her feet and taking the proffered microphone. Her rendition drew an admiring applause from the audience and ME took her seat after taking her bow. It was hard carrying on a conversation with the din of the bar and the band so we allowed ourselves to be enveloped by the sound and all that human energy hurrying away from the stress of the daily grind into the freedom of the weekend.

The singers taking turns at the microphone were average Joes and local talent—singers in their own bands who used the opportunity to perform in front of an audience, albeit one distracted by drink. The truly talented ones were able to command attention and praise, while others settled for mercy applause at the end. As the evening wore on DD and ME began conspiring to do another song. Each was working on their third margarita and becoming increasingly more giddy and daring. It had gone past nine and DD, ME, and I had a curfew of 10:00 PM. If they were going to do something it would have to be soon or not at all. After coming to a conclusion, ME advanced on the lady master of ceremony who had once again asked for volunteers from the audience. ME had chosen the Barry Manilow song “Copacabana”, not one from her usual repertoire but certainly one appropriate for the bar crowd tonight. DD had chickened out and failed to follow ME to the stage, but as soon as the song started and ME began belting out the lyrics, DD joined her and began doing some crazy dance. Now encouraged by her aunt, ME began more bold, exhorting the audience to pay attention and wailing the song with increasing vigor, so much so that the sound tech lowered the microphone volume—even those who seem to enjoy music played loud have their limit or maybe the singing left something to be desired. When the song gave the singer a respite and called for the instruments to carry the tune, ME joined DD in her crazy dance all the while clapping her hands vigorously. Mercifully, the sang, which runs nearly six minutes on the “Ultimate Manilow” Album ended and the applause celebrated the destination rather than the journey.

Undaunted and euphoric ME and DD returned to the table laughing and giggling at the spectacle they had made. After the two regained the composure, DD announced that it was her bedtime and we took our leave of CB, EV, and PV. DD made her goodbyes to each of them as she had done with Dad before leaving for the bar earlier in the evening. She would be rising before any of us were awake and on her way. LC, a chronic early riser, would be providing chauffer service to the airport. Being the designated driver I barely managed the one glass of Texas red table wine and I managed to get us all safely home in Dad’s white Uplander. DD had decided to spend the night in Dad’s 1950s vintage Airstream trailer though there were two spare bedrooms in the main house. She would awaken no one when leaving early in the morning, she said. Dad was asleep when we returned and we retired early, the evening at the bar providing some measure of cathartic relief.

June 20, 2006 - Father Benito and Mom’s Final Farewell

June 20, 2006 - Father Benito and Mom’s Final Farewell

It’s after 10:00 AM on Friday February 3rd, 2006. We’re all seated in the pews of Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church at the foot of the Franklin Mountains in El Paso, Texas. We’re here celebrating the funeral mass for my mother, Trinidad, and we’ve just heard Father Ben, the priest leading our service, sing without musical accompaniment, “Mamma” the song made famous by Connie Francis duringe the 1960s. When Father Ben ended his song, I had to repress an urge to applaud—that would have been out of character for this event.

Without missing a beat, the priest resumed his more somber mood and announced that Father Benito wanted to address the congregation. From the time we entered Our Lady of Assumption, I had noticed Father Benito seated in the center one of three chair at the right of the altar. Over a decade in retirement from the priesthood, he was attired not in the vestments of a priest but in civilian clothes—a nondescript cardigan sweater—buttoned, grey Docker slacks, and gray running shoes. His bespectacled, brown complexioned now graying, face, was a mask of stoicism, though his brown eyes were the picture of sadness—he had attended or presided over far too many funerals in his long life. While age had been kind to his noble visage, it had been less so to his body. His hands betrayed the involuntary shake of a mind loosing the fine control over bodily appendages it once disciplined in earlier ages. As he was summoned to the stage, Father Benito, slowly rose from his chair and approached a spot beside the dais. His gate was slow and measured and there was a hushed silence as everyone watched the priest’s slow progress to where Father Ben stood waiting.

Father Benito is another priest who has long been a close friend to both my parents. A Filipino immigrant he was called to fill slots left wanting by lack of sufficient numbers of native born priests. When he served at Our Lady of Assumption his ministry was so effective that he converted my father to Catholicism—no mean feat—and married my parents, perhaps the happiest day of my mother’s long life. Mom and Dad had been married by a military chaplain right after the war. After a good ten years at Our Lady of Assumption, Father Benito was transferred to a small parish in Presidio, Texas on the U.S-Mexican border 250 miles south and east of El Paso. Mom and Dad kept saying that he had disagreements with the Catholic Dioceses in El Paso and had been exiled, though Father Benito never viewed his transfer in that light. Instead he saw the plight of the immigrant Mexican population that worked the farms on the U.S. side—some managing to live in Persidio, others crossing between the two countries—all the while trying to raise families and care for them. He would continue to confound the church in Presidio as he fought to help his impoverished congregation make a decent living. His innate charisma quickly won over his local congregation and he had a large and loyal following that looked on him as their spiritual leader. Once Father Benito was transferred, Mom and Dad made trips south to visit with him for a week or two at a time, often bringing along other Filipinos who wanted to make the journey to see a well-liked member of their community.

I’ve never been to Persidio, but I’ve seen an 8-mm movie my father took on one visit. It shows a parade down a paved street intersecting with dirt roads along its progress in the predominantly Hispanic farming community. It had all the elements of every parade you’ve ever seen: a marching band—kids from the local school dressed in blue pants and t-shirt tops playing drums and brass instruments—and a sequence of floats drawn by pick-up trucks. The first float, pulled by a beige 1970s Chevy, is carrying the Seven Dwarfs and an attractive Snow White smiling at the bystanders along the parade route. Several other pick-ups follow, towing floats carrying attractive women smiling and waving at those lining the parade route. The film was made at least 20 years ago and its age added to the sense of past time captured in each frame: dust covered cinderblock, adobe, and stone buildings and finely dusted cars and trucks.

Of all the priests I’ve ever known, Father Benito was the most selfless I have ever met and his life is a testament to that selflessness. His worldly belongings can be contained in a grocery bag. He owns no property and lives in a retirement home for priests run by the Catholic Diocese in El Paso. He lived for a time with my father’s friend Charles Upton, now deceased, acting as a companion to the older man. Back then he owned a pick-up truck, a present from an admiring parishioner. My father kept it running. In those days, he was frequently called upon to say mass for homebound seniors or to lead a novena. He would be given donations for his services. He made enough to buy gas for his truck, items of clothing, and groceries—though he was often provided more food than he could eat by grateful followers. Now, no longer able to drive and his truck beyond being able to carry him anyway, he relies on his diminishing numbers of followers to drive him to and from fewer and fewer services.

As he reached his mark beside Father Ben, the younger man step back and gave the older priest the stage. When Father Benito spoke his voice completely contradicted the impression of the enfeebled old man that his body portrayed. His un-amplified, rich-toned, booming voice filled the church with his heartfelt words. He told the story of befriending my parents after he arrived at Our Lady of Assumption, referring to Mom, with the affectionate familiar Manang Nida, that Father Ben had used. He described my parent’s trips to visit him at his parish in Persidio bringing along donations of clothes and other goods for his parishioners. He related his time living with Charles Upton when my mother would prepare meals each day for both men and how satisfying it was to have her home cooking. He spoke of the many times he had celebrated religious holidays at my parent’s home and the many feasts he shared with them. He then spoke of my mother’s many good works and of her devotion to the religion that gave her peace and comfort. As he spoke I saw my mother in her final years, a kind, forgiving, and selfless woman who had sacrificed until the end. Her quality of life had been impaired by a drug regimen that had made her dizzy and tired most of the day, and increasingly less able to focus on details given to her in conversation. My mother had grown weary of her life but felt compelled to carry on and endure. She chose to die when none of her family was around. If we had been at her bedside she would have felt compelled to carry on.

When Father Benito completed his oration, the giant with booming voice was replaced by the aged priest that shuffled back to his seat at the right side of the altar. The church felt momentarily abandoned as if a spirit that had held us in its embrace suddenly vanished leaving us missing the inner peace we felt in its presence. In the wake of Father Benito’s benediction—for that’s what it felt like to me—Father Ben resumed the mass moving forward to The Liturgy of the Eucharist with the priest symbolically partaking of Christ’s blood and body—wine and bread in the service—and then sharing the body of Christ with the assembled worshippers. In some services, church attendees partake of wine and bread but in Our Lady of Assumption the tradition was only the bread. Along the way we gave a sign of peace to those around us hugging the family members in our pew and shaking hands with those in the pew behind us.

Afterwards those receiving Holy Communion formed a queue and proceeded to the alter to receive the host. As a child, it was a great sin to partake of the host without having previously performed a confession and act of contrition to cleanse your soul of wrongdoing. It was also considered unthinkable to chew the host—it was to dissolve on your tongue. Now, both taboos had been eliminated and I took my turn receiving the host, no confession, no act of contrition and I chewed the host. I knew Mom would have been pleased that I made the gesture. I had not gone to Church since leaving home except to baptize our two daughters, to witness both having their first communion—both chose to do so on their own after going off to UC Irvine—and to attend the wedding of our second daughter RD, married in this very church by Father Ben and three other priests. On the Christmases we came home to El Paso, our daughters ME and RD, with no coercion from IM or me—would attend midnight mass with Mom, the only times they were ever taken to church. You might think I’m hypocritical to have both baptized Catholic and never provide them with a church upbringing. You’re right, of course, but both have made their own peace with God and religion as have my wife IM and I. They came by their faith and beliefs as free thinking adults not as impressionable children with no choice.

As the service concluded, the pallbearers are called to the side of Mom’s casket and we walk it slowly to the entrance of the church. There Father Ben removes the white shroud that had adorned it during the service and we pallbearers lift Mom’s casket from the stand which the Martin Funeral Home attendant removes and we slow march in lock step out of the church entrance, down a handful of steps, right through the parking lot on the south side of the church, and slowly slide Mom’s casket through the open rear door of the hearse. The funeral entourage slowly reassembles and with our three uniformed motorcycle police patrolmen escort leading the way, we pull out of Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church parking lot turn left onto Byron Street proceed one short and one long block to Hayes Avenue, turn right for five blocks to Dyer Street. At the intersection police escorts blocking traffic, the procession turns left and proceeds six blocks to Fred Wilson Avenue where it turns right and proceeds under Highway 54—Gateway Boulevard—and over Railroad Drive and Marshall Road, where the procession slows as it comes upon the entrance to Ft Bliss National Cemetery. There the hearse carry Mom turns right into the entrance and proceeds slowly through neat rows of uniform white tombstones of military dead and their family members lying atop the parched dust brown earth of an El Paso winter. I’m reminded of the second verse of John McCrae’s poem “In Flanders Field” about the World War I dead of Ypres, Belgium.

“We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.”

My mother’s life was that of a military wife. The military gave her strife as a young woman—moving her family from one Army base to another—but rewarded her in her later years with a comfortable life. Now, that same military was taking her into its bosom amid the graves of war heroes and average GI’s who did their duty to God and country. I often wondered how she felt about her life as an Army wife. It’s one of so many questions I never got around to asking her.

The procession wound its way round to an outdoor chapel on the western side of the cemetery, where the population of tombstones was sparse. It was a rectangular-shaped concrete structure with a flat roof but no enclosed sides. It had a small seating area and ample space behind to accommodate a large number of standing guests. Six or seven bare trees on the western side of the chapel stood poor guard against a gusty brisk wind. The midday winter sun was aglow in a completely cloudless sky shining brightly on the assembling crowd below. We pall bearers once again carried Mom’s casket from the hearse to the stand inside the chapel where Father Ben was waiting. When we had placed Mom’s casket on its stand we took our positions on the west side of the chapel, Father Ben and Mom to our left and the assembled mourners on our right. My sister LC, skinny as a rail, was beginning to shiver from the persistent wind adding to the chill underneath the chapel’s shade. I took off my suit coat and wrapped it around her as Father Ben began his final prayers over Mom’s coffin I was reminded of William Cullen Bryant poem Thanatopsis,

“Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,
...
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,
The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.”

It was as if all my high school English was rushing back into my head, reminding me of a time when my mother and I were young and death was an abstract concept years in the future. Only now the abstract had become real and my family and I were feeling its consequence. When Father Ben had at last concluded his prayer he asked me to come forward and address the assembly of Mom’s family, friends, and well wishers. I haltingly walked to where Father Ben stood and looked around at all those who had come to pay their respects to my mother and for a moment I was at a loss for words. After a brief pause, I said “thank you all for joining us in this final celebration of our mother’s life.” I walked back to my place beside my fellow pall bearers and my sister LC said it was the perfect thing for me to say and I gave her a bear hug that released all the emotion that I had welled up inside the past week. Everyone began to hug one another with tear filled eyes. All of us in the family felt a heavy burden lifted from our shoulders, We had said our goodbyes and Mom was free to be on her way in the world beyond and we were allowed to resume our normal lives as best we could knowing she was no longer with us. For my sister DD and I, residents of the of the distant right coast and the left coast of the country, respectively, getting back to normal would be easier than for those of our family here where Mom’s memory remains ever present, especially my Dad who would spend upcoming days and nights alone without her by his side.

Once the service had concluded, the cemetery personnel took possession of Mom’s Coffin and it was carried away to her grave site in another part of the cemetery. Later as those assembled began departing for a mid-day luncheon we had planned at a nearby restaurant, the two funeral home limo drivers said they would take us by the gravesite. As we watch the cemetery workers lower Mom’s coffin into the plastic casing that would seal her coffin within the grave, her final rest became a concrete reality. We left shortly afterwards to join our guests awaiting our arrival.

June 13, 2006 – The Funeral

June 13, 2006 – The Funeral

It’s just before 7:00 AM on Friday February 3rd, 2006. I wake and get out of bed quietly so as not to disturb my wife IM sleeping peacefully still. She’s a light sleeper. I don my running suit and slip on my ASICs running shoes. As I’m about to leave the corner bedroom on the second floor of the house the board underfoot near the bedroom entrance creaks and IM asks if I’m off for a run. I say, “I’ll be back by 8:00,” and creep quietly downstairs to avoid waking any of the others still sleeping. I make my way up Harrison Street in the Morningside Heights neighborhood of El Paso, Texas as I’ve done all this week keeping my mind busy with the monotony of my rhythmic footfalls and intake and exhale of breath. As I climb Harrison’s steady incline, I’m vaguely aware of my quickened heartbeat and I strive to find the pace that synchronizes me with the pulse of El Paso. The rhythm is not as frenetic as LA nor as manic as Manhattan, more like a regular double time military march cadence.

By the time I return from my morning run into McKelligon Canyon just west and north of Harrison, Dad’s house is abuzz with activity as everyone prepares for the funeral service later this morning. I greet Dad, who is sitting at the small breakfast table in the kitchen and his housekeeper EA and my middle sister LC both preparing breakfast for the awakening guests. LC asks how far I ran; I reply; she smirks a smile, which I return; and I bound up the stairs to get a shower and clean up for breakfast. I greet my older half sister SQ and her husband BB who are coming out of their room and heading downstairs. I pass IM as she too heads for the dining room downstairs. I quickly shower and get into the suit that I purchased at Burlington Coat Factory on Tuesday this week and join the others already enjoying their breakfast. My sister EV and niece CB have arrived and, we’re soon joined by PS, EV’s Sergeant Major significant other. My daughter ME and youngest sister DD both spent the night in my father’s 1950s vintage Airstream and have also joined the breakfast gathering.

The room is filled with nervous energy as everyone senses that the day has a timetable all its own and as a group we’re responsible for keeping to the schedule. It is my mother’s last day among us, which she planned years before by purchasing a funeral package from Martin Funeral Home on Montana Avenue. It was there she spent last night in the coffin of her choice. As a child my mother chided her uncle—who raised her with his daughter in Manila—for sleeping in the coffins of the funeral home which he managed. She said it frightened her to see him there. Now, she was resting peacefully in a coffin of her own, waiting for us to arrive and take her to her final resting place. The funeral home limos arrive promptly at 9:00 AM and park in front of my father’s home. The pallbearers climb into the first of the two, minus my brother DG and uncle SQ who plan to meet us at the funeral home. The rest of the family; Dad, my wife IM, daughter ME, youngest sister DD, and Dad’s housekeeper EA; pile into the second limo and we’re off on a slow drive to the funeral home. The 3-mile drive takes more than the six minutes the Yahoo maps claims, but then again, it’s during rush hour on a Friday.

My brother Danny, his wife, daughter, and mother are already at Martin when we arrive as is my uncle SQ and his wife, Mom’s cousin and her son. My elder sister SY and her husband BB arrive just after the two limos pull into the garage occupying the center of building housing Martin Funeral Home. As we disembark, I realize that the garage, which we entered from the rear has a front door that provides access onto Montana Avenue. Our limo pulls up near the front entrance and a hearse pulls in behind us. The limo carrying the rest of the family is parked out back. The rear overhead door closes behind the hearse and we file into the chapel on the west side of the long building where last night we held the rosary. The other chapel—the funeral home has two—on the east side of the building could likewise be accessed from the garage. We each file by and pause before Mom’s casket. I touch her hands and face and despair at how cold she feels, flesh without life, a body without its spirit. Once everyone has assembled and have paid their respects, the pall bearers; my brother DG, EV significant other PS, my uncle SQ, sister LC, niece CB, and I; are pulled aside and given instructions on handling the casket. As we load the casket into the hearse, the forward pall bearer lifts the casket onto the skid of the hearse, then takes the middle handle from the bearers in the center, and the handle at the end until the entire casket is within the vehicle. The process is repeated in reverse when the casket is extracted from the vehicle at the church and at the cemetery. When carrying the casket, each bearer grasps the handle with one hand or two then walks in lockstep with the forward bearers.

As the time nears for us to leave for Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church at the intersection of Byron Street and Truman Avenue, we each say our final goodbye to Mom and the funeral home attendants close the casket. Mom and Dad’s housekeeper EA cannot contain her grief and breaks down in convulsive sobs, which unleashes torrents of tears from the rest of us, who were bearing up stoically. The pall bearers then take positions on either side of Mom’s casket. DG and PS are at the head, my sister LC and niece are in the middle and my uncle SQ and I are at the end. We lift the casket from its stand and a funeral home attendant at the rear of the casket wheels the stand from beneath and then grasps the handle at the casket’s end while an attendant at the head of the casket grasps the handle at the casket’s other end and the eight of us glide in lock step to the rear of the hearse. When the casket forms a right angle at back of the hearse, the attendant at our end, SQ, and I side step sideways in a clockwise arc until the casket is aligned to be lifted into the hearse. We execute the loading maneuver as practiced and the attendants lock the casket into place. Afterwards the rear overhead garage door is raised, the pall bearers climb into the forward limo and the family take their place in the limo behind the funeral home. When everyone seated, the front overhead garage door is raised and we see three motorcycle policemen, their lights flashing and their siren beginning to sound halting traffic on Montana.

As our limo pulls into the four-lane street heading west, one of the three motorcycle patrol pulls ahead of us clearing traffic. We’re followed by the hearse and the rear limo as well as several cars carrying others in the funeral procession. As our motorcade reaches North Copia Street two blocks west of the funeral home, the lead patrolman has stopped in the middle of the intersection halting traffic in all four directions. As we reach the intersection, our driver turns right and one of the other two motorcycle patrolmen zooms past us and takes up the lead as the motorcade heads north on Copia. At each intersection with a traffic light on Copia, the patrolmen repeat the procedure of halting traffic to allow the motorcade to pass through without stopping.

We’re traveling a street I’ve walked, ran, and ridden my bicycle, Vespa motor scooter, and car over countless time growing up and as an adult passing the avenues—La Luz, Hueco, and Clifton—then crossing Pershing Drive after Copia bends northwesterly. The two avenues Douglas and Bisbee are followed by Morenci Road before we begin crossing avenues again: Aurora, Lebanon, Louisville, Richmond, Altura, Savannah, Frankfort, Memphis, and Nashville. Off to our right is Austin High School, where I spent three years of my young life. The avenues resume with Mobile, Sacramento, Hamilton, Idalia, and Porter. As a student, I crossed these avenues on foot countless times rather than ride the bus home. The avenues are interrupted as we cross Fort Boulevard next before resuming again on the other side with Morehead, Nations, and Mountain. These are followed by all the avenues named for U.S. presidents: McKinley, Jackson, Jefferson, and Monroe, which is a one-way street eastbound. The motorcade turns right off Copia onto Monroe and heads east one block to Byron Street where it turns left and resumes its northward trek past Van Buran—one way heading west—and crossing two-way president-named avenues thereafter: Harrison, Tyler, Polk, Taylor, Fillmore, Pierce, and finally Truman where the motorcade turns left into the parking lot of Our Lady of Assumption Catholic Church.

Over the course of my life, this church has meant many things to me. As a young adolescent it was my introduction to Catholicism, where I received by first Holy Communion. It was also where our youngest daughter, RD, was baptized and a couple of decades later where she was first married and IM and I had our vows renewed. The renewal was important to Mom, since IM and I were married in a civil ceremony at my parents’ home in the latter half of the sixties. Now, as we pallbearers with two Martin Funeral Home attendants grasping the front and rear of Mom’s coffin glide from the side of the church, up the handful of steps to the foyer of the church where a wheeled carrier waits to take Mom from our grasps. As we rest the coffin on its carrier, Father Ben, a priest well-known to Mom and to us all is there to drape the coffin with a ceremonial white shroud. Afterwards, we pall bearers walk alongside the casket as it makes its slow procession to the foot of the alter. Once the casket had come to rest, we take our places in the front pew on the left side of the church and Father Ben began the mass.

A catholic mass is a ritual. Ours began with NT on the organ leading the congregation in a hymn that I cannot remember. Father Ben directs his congregation to open the hymn book to a page and he nods his head at NT and we begin to sing. When the hymn ends Father Ben leads in making the sign of the cross—fingertips on the right hand to the forehead, then left shoulder and right shoulder), while he says, "in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit", to which the congregation answer: "Amen." At some point later in the mass, I recall Father Ben saying, “Hear my prayer; unto thee all flesh shall come.” The congregation, far wiser than me in the ritual—responds, “Kyrie eleison; Christe eleison; Kyrie eleison” (Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy). We’re then told to open our hymnals to another page and NT—she plays piano and organ very well—leads the congregation in song.

When NT’s organ goes silent, Father Ben says, “The Lord be with you.”
The congregation replies, “And with thy spirit.” Then Father Ben resumes,
“Let us pray. O almighty and everlasting God, we humbly beseech Thy majesty; that as Thine only-begotten Son was this day presented in the temple in the substance of our flesh, so too Thou wouldst grant us to be presented unto Thee with purified souls. Through the same Lord Jesus Christ, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, one God Forever and ever.” When the prayer concludes I see Father Ben beckoning my daughter ME, who dutifully walks to the lectern in front of our column of pews where Father Ben awaits. She has a bible in her hands and announces that she will read and identifies the scripture she will recite. Looking out over the congregation she begins her recitation. When she completes the short reading she turns the pages of the bible to another marked spot. She announces the scripture she will recite then begins her reading. When she completes her recitation, she turns and nods to Father Ben and resumes her seat in the pew across the aisle beside her very proud mother, IM.

Father Ben is a loveable priest and he often visited Mom and Dad or they would visit with him at his sister’s home on Truman Street. He was more family than a family friend. Today, standing at the lectern he wanted to let the congregation know of the bond that existed between he and my mother, whom he kept calling Manang (affectionate title which means “older sister in the Ilocano dialect of the Philippines) Neda—my mother’s pet name used by all her friends. He then announces without preamble that he wants to sing a cappella the song that reminded him most of her “Mama.”

Mama, I miss the days
when you were near to guide me,
Mama, those happy days
when you were here beside me.

Safe in the glow of your love,
Sent from the heavens above,
Nothing can ever replace
The warmth of your tender embrace.

Oh, Mama, until the day
that we're together once more,
I'll live in these memories
Until the day that we're together once more.

I loved it, watching this man that I had never seen so completely and utterly spontaneous bursting into song with no musical accompaniment, his strong voice—honed from years saying the mass—booming the heartfelt lyrics, on key, and with the happy uplifting delivery that Connie Francis would have applauded. Father Ben, it dawned on me, was celebrating Mom’s life. And for the first time all week, I realized that’s what we should all be doing. But, you could tell the song was far too upbeat for the congregation who had come prepared for an hour of somber prayer and meditation. Nevertheless, there were those among us who were enjoying Father Ben’s indulgence including my sisters LC and across the aisle my sister DD and wife IM and daughter ME, were all smiling. And I know Mom was smiling too.

June 6, 2006 – After the Rosary

June 6, 2006 – After the Rosary

It’s around 8:00 PM on Thursday February 2nd, 2006. The rosary held for my mother at Martin Funeral Home in El Paso, Texas on Montana Avenue has come to an end and most of those who came to pay their respects to Mom have bid their farewell and given the bereaved family their heartfelt sympathy. Of those remaining EA, the family housekeeper, is having the toughest time letting go. She and my mother had formed a very tight bond in later years with EA being the one my mother and father depended upon for not only the upkeep of their home but also for daily nursing the two of them: ensuring my mother’s regime of drugs were taken at the appropriate time, administering and recording blood pressure readings at intervals during the day, testing her level of blood sugar at different intervals… The list went on with my father who had depended upon her for help during his recovery from a hip and knee replacement as well as a recent broken leg. EA had become very close to my mother indeed. Now that Mom was gone, I wondered if EA didn’t feel a whole mix of emotions beyond the grief of loosing someone close—guilt that she had failed Mom in some way, fear that her employer of so many years would not need her any more… She among all of us displayed the greatest amount of emotional anguish—some of it no doubt attributed to the customs of Mexico where grief is much more publicly expressed than among the more restrained American.

As the last of Mom’s friends took their leave, we all had to face the same realization that EA had reckoned with, the prospect that the presence of Mom’s physical form on earth among the living was one day closer to ending; that tomorrow we would no longer have any tangible evidence of her presence with us; that we’d only be left with our memories. Those of our sister SY would be of a time and place earlier and different than any of us. My father would be next, knowing her as she struggled to provide for her family; knowing her as she made a new life with him in America. We siblings would have our own remembrances, each remembering different stages in her life as time changed her into the new person we each came to know unmindful of the earlier person that existed before we came into being. The finality of this night was something none of us wanted to contemplate, reasoning that we still had tomorrow before we had to completely let go.

We invite all the close and distant family members to join us at home where EA had so much food left over from lunch that everyone will have a choice of something to eat. Our half-sister SY and her husband BB, Mom’s brother SQ and his wife NQ, and Mom’s niece AQ and her nephew FY, my wife IM and our oldest daughter ME, as well as the immediately family: Dad, my oldest sister EV and her daughter CB, middle sister LC, and youngest sister DD. At home, everyone gathers around the dining room table while my sisters and niece stand and our out of town guests take seats around the table with Dad at the head. EA has brought something to eat and drink for everyone assembled. The talk in the room begins with the funeral tomorrow. SQ is a pall bearer and asks about the arrangements for the funeral tomorrow. The other pall bearers include my sister LC, my niece CB, my half brother DG (home with his family, he’s aware of tomorrow’s schedule), EV’s boyfriend PS an Army Sergeant Major who in the past several years has become part of the extended family, and me. The day will begin at 9:00AM when Martin Funeral Home will send two limos to Dad’s place one to carry the ball bearers and the second to carry the family members back to the funeral home. At 9:30 AM we’ll bear Mom’s casket at the funeral into the hearse for the drive from Martin to Our Lady of Assumption Church where the funeral service will begin at 10:00 AM. After the service, we’ll travel to the cemetery for the graveside service. At each stop, we will bear the casket to and from the hearse, ending at the cemetery.

Once the details of the memorial services are explained a silence settles over the dining room table. I interrupt the quiet to ask Mom’s sole surviving sibling, SQ, about my mother’s early life. To my surprise, he said that he never knew my mother in the Philippines; that he grew up knowing of her but never actually meeting her. During the late 1960s and early 1970s, when SQ had left the Philippines to work on merchant ships and in the oil fields of the Middle East he began corresponding with Mom and asked for her help coming to the U.S., which she and my father gave. My uncle SQ ended up working in El Paso first as a maintenance man at the airport hotel where my sister EV was manager, then with the City of El Paso, where he still works. He also married the nice Filipino lady MQ. She had been living in one of my parent’s rental properties with her son. At few years after SQ arrived and began working in El Paso, the two married with my uncle SQ adopting her son. If you were to look at him, it’s hard to see the family resemblance with my mother. He looks remarkably young for a man in his late 60s, though his bald head is ringed with salt and pepper hair more the former than the latter. His brown eyebrows still lack any gray and his brown eyes are surrounded by the wrinkled furrows of a much younger man. His characteristic flaring Filipino nose is a bit more pointed than typically found on the island. His high cheekbones broaden a face that tapers to a “U”-shaped jaw. When he smiles his brown eyes have a twinkle reflecting a soul that has seen the best and worst of life.

Like my mother, my uncle SQ is a complex man that I’ve not fully understood or appreciated. After the Second World War, his older brothers collected cigarettes on the U.S. Navy ships where they worked. Ten-year old Simone and his younger brothers sold them. The kids also made cigarettes that they smoked. Another source of income for the enterprising youngsters was picking up shell casing and unspent ammunition from the fields around Agoo La Union where the military would hold maneuvers. They would sell these for cash or other goods that could be bartered.

When my uncle had concluded his reminisces, our sister SY described another person in my mother’s life during the war who could tell me much more of the time before and after my birth. A cousin on my sister’s side, he was with my mother, her mother-in-law, SQ, and little Cora when they were all in the evacuation center during the American reoccupation of the Philippines. SQ said he was now in the Bay Area about to retire and that I should contact him when I return to learn more of these years in my mother’s life. I promised her I would.

Shortly afterwards, everyone seemed to sense it was time to leave and prepare for the busy day to come. Our guests depart and we all retired for the evening.