On Friday morning, we didn’t have anything planned until the dinner organized by my uncle. I set the hotel alarm to go off in time to get some breakfast, but decided when it went off that rolling back over would be a better idea. My brother Ben and his girlfriend Alisha and Alisha’s mother Becky (they were continuing up to Delaware to visit Becky’s dying father after the service) had arrived late the night before. Around noon, Ben and Alisha and we decided to head over to the air museum by the airport. We’d spotted it driving around with my parents the day before on one of our extended searches for food. The huge Blackbird SR-71 in the front yard kind of gives it away. It isn’t a large museum, but it does have a pretty impressive collection. Berck couldn’t help himself from making sure we all understood how the mechanics of flight works, giving us detailed information on every bump and spike sticking out of the fuselages, noses, wings, and tails. It was fun. Most of the pieces on the inside are old World War birds. They have a personal plane of William Randolph Hearst, a skied contraption flown by Admiral Byrd, and a biplane with an operational front mounted machine gun (with the placard warning to re-synchronize the gun if the propeller is replaced).
The SR-71 airframe is the most impressive sight there, even if it’s just an empty shell. Apparently, all but one of the museum’s other items in the collection are fully operational. Berck and I braved the light rain to gawk at its sleek titanium hull. We discovered the reason for the characteristic spikes sticking out of the front of the engines: they’re to slow the supersonic speeding air down to subsonic (and burnable) temperatures. This also compresses the air, helping it burn that much more effectively. The Blackbird flew faster than any bullet. It was an amazing machine.
Berck is apparently attempting chicken-fried steak. At least he’s spent the last hour or so searching for a recipe.
After the air museum, the four of us went to eat at the Williamsburg Grill (featuring juicy cheeseburgers). We each ordered a Coke because they were out of sugar to make sweet tea. They also only had three Kaiser rolls, so Alisha had her cheeseburger on a regular bun. The waitress then dropped Ben’s bun on the floor, but Ben brushed it off and said it was fine. I’m guessing it wasn’t her day.
Afterward, we ventured into downtown Richmond (we were staying at a hotel right next to the airport) and visited the Poe Museum. We had to wait twenty minutes for an hour tour, and the first thing they tell you is that Edgar Allen Poe never lived in that house (though it is the oldest house in Richmond, and he did visit it once). The had a small number of items from Poe’s life (like his walking stick and a lock of his hair), but mostly the tour was nice because we got to sit back and absorb details of the writer’s turbulent life.
We got back to the hotel in time to change clothes and go to the cafe that was catering our extended family supper. I got to see cousins I haven’t seen in years, as well as friends of my grandmother that I have fond memories of but will probably never see again.
The sound of pepper grinding is emanating from the kitchen, followed by Berck’s muffled sneezing.
My nephew Ian got handed around among relatives and friends until he started fussing (the most he’s EVER cried), probably as a result of freaking out a little at all the new faces. But as soon as Steph put him in his little car seat on the floor by her chair, he calmed right down, happily staring at the intricacies of a plastic butterfly attached to his seat.
We shared “Dottie stories” about my grandmother’s life. She was remarkably frugal with food. There were many stories about ever-thinning soup, the ever-present powdered milk, and her legendary vegetable garden. But she was also one of the most generous people I’ve ever seen. She gave tons of money away. Most Christmases there was a heifer or some other gift sent to a third-world country, given away in her grandchildren’s names… not as tangible as a pair of socks, but always a cool gesture in my eyes.
Berck just placed a hot pad on the floor in the “living room,” putting a pot on top of it. “This is very hot. What? I have NO counterspace!”
When we got back to the hotel, Berck’s sister Sydney was waiting for us. She had just driven down from Maryland, where she’s working as an AmeriCorps VISTA volunteer. Someone in my family asked her what that meant. She described it as something like, “It’s like the peace corps, except it’s the opposite.”
“In other words,” I quipped, “she fills IN ditches.”
I made Sydney hold Ian, which she was initially unwilling to do, but she didn’t try to give him away for a good hour or so. I also made Berck hold Ian, which he wasn’t very good at, but Ian loves looking at Berck’s face… maybe because he’s got interesting features, like glasses, a beard, and curly locks that fall around his forehead. Ian has just recently learned how to smile, and he apparently he found Berck’s visage hilarious, because he kept grinning hysterically at him.
Ah… a nice cold glass of ice tea.
The next morning was the memorial service. The evening before my mother told me I was reading Psalm 91 out of my grandparent’s Bible. So I ran through it once that morning. It’s one of my favorite Psalms.
3 For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
and from the deadly pestilence;
4 he will cover you with his pinions,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness is a shield and buckler.
5 You will not fear the terror of the night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
nor the destruction that wastes at noonday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand;
but it will not come near you.
That meant that I got to go up into the “pulpit” with the minister of Second Presbyterian Church and my dad, who offered the eulogy I posted earlier. The minister also gave a eulogy, talking about the generosity and hospitality my grandmother extended to his family when they first came to Richmond. She would take his two daughters swimming once a week and give him and his wife (and the girls) a welcome break from each other. The choir sang a couple of really beautiful pieces. Second Pres has always had a great choir.
Afterward, we all went into the reception hall for some yummy finger food. I didn’t get a whole lot of chance to eat, because friends of my grandmother kept coming up to me and introducing themselves. Some of them I recognized from visits to Richmond in years past. Some I recognized only by the names my grandmother used to repeat over and over again in stories back before her stroke when she could still speak. Berck helped me out by periodically coming over and sticking something chocolate into my mouth.
I got to see Hal and Carol King, with whom my grandmother and I went on a tour of Scandinavia when I was 14. Hal told me a story about my grandfather (who died in the mid ’80’s) that I didn’t know. My grandmother was a teetotaler, only having the occasional celebratory glass of wine at Christmas or some other special occasion. So every Thanksgiving, Hal and my grandfather would retreat down into the basement and share a bottle of Wild Turkey. Then they’d re-emerge in a much merrier state. My grandmother couldn’t do much but shake her head and sigh.
We spent the rest of the day lounging around at my uncle’s house, eating amazing manicotti and drinking Amstel Light out of the can (because, according to my cousin’s husband, the glass recycling container was full). That night, all of the Brennerdom clan went back to the Mexican place where we’d first eaten. It was a fun time.
The whole weekend was a blast, if you can say that about a funeral. It was also a little sad… not because my grandmother was dead. I know she’s a LOT happier now. But because I may never see again all these people I’m connected to through her life. There’s something about patriarchs that hold an extended family together. And the last remaining patriarch’s funeral brings us all together… but often for the last time.
I’m so glad Berck and I could be a part of it. I’ve always thought that funerals are a little silly… what does the dead person care who’s there? they can’t tell! and if they can, I’m sure they’ve got bigger priorities now. But I guess funerals aren’t about the dead… they’re one last excuse for the living to get together.
Well, the chicken-fried steak was delicious. Berck did a surprisingly good job. And he did it naked, which just seems to be courting disaster.
