Twenty-Three

Twenty-three years ago today, we buried my dad. I use the collective "we" to imply Lewis's family and friends who were there, though none of us did the actual grave-digging and burial. It was a Tuesday. his visitation had been the previous day, and he'd died on Thursday of the preceding week. All of this occurred in Springfield, IL. I was living in Champaign. The drives to and from the cities on those days felt like the longest drives of my life. 

Lewis, who'd been a sergeant in the Vietnam War, is buried in Camp Butler National Cemetery, just outside of Springfield. I'd say his thoughts on his military service were conflicted. Back in the early nineties, at the outbreak of the Persian Gulf War, dad and I had a phone conversation about what was going on. I was nervous about the conflict continuing for years, and the possibility of being drafted once I'd turned 18. I could see the sneer on Lewis's face through the telephone line. "Don't you love your country?" he asked, incredulous. "Of course I do," was my response. "Then don't you want to serve your country?" Put like that, I felt awkward answering in the negative.

A mere six years later, dying of cancer, Lewis seemed to have a different take on his military service. Our conversations during his illness ran the gamut, and he would sometimes oscillate between quiet reserve, and occasional bouts of anger or frustration. At one point, we were conversing -- I forget about what -- and his voice rose notably and he began talking about how the government had ripped him away from his life and his family (I think he was referring to being drafted), and how he'd had to go "across the world" and fight in a war. He didn't sound proud about it. He'd always sounded proud about it before. Indeed, he vocalized the notion of Agent Orange as a potential cause of his cancer. He also smoked several packs of cigarettes a day, for decades, so that probably didn't help.

A few months after venting his frustration about going to war, dad was dead from pancreatic cancer. A limousine had been rented for the funeral, and it transported his widow, my two-and-a-half-year-old half-brother, my aunt Charlease and I to the grave site. Friends and family sat and stood under a tent while the requisite words were uttered by the officiant. Taps was played. The American flag, draped over dad's coffin during the proceedings, was carefully removed by the military personnel who were present, and handed to Lewis's widow and my half-brother.

Back in the 1980s, when mom and dad were still married, whenever Lewis was home (usually on the weekends), he'd often fall asleep in the recliner watching westerns on TV. He worked construction during the week -- a lot of physical labor and a lot of long days. On weekends, he needed his rest. Sometimes, when dad would fall asleep, mom and I would go out -- to get some food, or to the movies, or just for a drive. When we came back, dad would often be gone.

One time, I asked mom why dad left when her and I were out of the house. She said something like, "Your father grew up with a big family, and I don't think he likes to be alone. So, when he wakes up and we're not here, he goes someplace where there are people." This sometimes made me feel a bit guilty for leaving while he was asleep. On the day of Lewis's funeral, as we were in the car and leaving the cemetery, I looked back at his grave site and began to cry. "We have to go back," I said. "He's alone. He doesn't like to be alone." No one said anything, and we drove on in silence.

After the funeral, there was a repast at his house. His widow played the good hostess, though she had to be broken inside. I didn't fare so well, and my disconsolate mood was readily apparent. I noticed Lewis's oxygen tank in the corner of a room, and had to leave the house. Sitting on the front porch, I developed a searing headache. Soon thereafter, I made my excuses and left. Once I was home, I crashed into bed, not waking until the next morning. And then, I went to work. It so happened that I'd already had Monday and Tuesday off that week, and those were the days of the visitation and the funeral, respectively.

Life, as it always does, moved on.