Steve was Italian. Steve was well known and well liked in the small town where he lived. And in life, Steve had been a police man and a volunteer fireman. This, it seems, is the tripple whammy.
You see, these three things resulted in what amounted to three days of abject misery. At the viewing, there was a recieving line that stretched around the block. For hours it stretched around the block. People were told they would have to wait in line more than an hour and a half just to get into the room. It was unrelenting. Everyone wanted to pay respects, to honor Steve, and really, how do you say no to such requests? Even when honoring such requests prolongs the mourning.
There were roll calls and honor guards and color guards and bagpipes and tolling bells and flag folding and flashing lights and so many uniforms and white gloves and salutes and Taps and and crying. There was a lot of crying.
My cousin, Donna, held up remarkably well for someone in her position. I suppose she had no choice. I think she also had sweet Valium.
It was said more than once over the course of the past couple of days that Steve would have been more than a little irritated with the lot of us. He hated funerals, he thought them a waste of time and energy. He would have rather had everyone outside, playing, smiling, laughing.
And the kids who were there, they knew that. Steve's brother has two small daughters. He sat them down to tell them the bad news. "Uncle Stevie was in an accident," he said, "he died, which is a very sad thing."
Both girls started to cry. He hugged them both and the youngest one looked up at her father. "Will he come back?" she asked?
"No, honey. When someone dies, it means we won't get to see them again."
"Does that mean we won't get to go to his house at the shore anymore? Oh, daddy. Do you think Aunt Donna knows how to run that boat?"
Posted at 12:12 p.m.
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