“If you don’t touch her,” admonished Aunt Berdene as I stood with her in front of an open casket, “you won’t really believe she is dead.” I allowed her to take my small hand and gently stroke the cheek of my recently deceased great grandmother. It was not particularly traumatic to me, but I do remember feeling hesitant. It was the first time I had seen a dead human body, let alone touched one. I do remember thinking she looked lovely. All the lines of pain and worry had been erased from that face I knew and loved. I left her viewing that evening, knowing that the part of her that made her, her, was not still inside the body she left behind for us to view (and touch). I knew she was dead. Her skin no longer felt like real skin. I believed that what the adults were saying was true. I believed (and still do), that Grandmother Martha Anna Wilcox Westwood Foy had gone on to a better place.
The next day was to be her funeral. It was to be held at the local Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (of which we are members) on Locust Lane in
Moab, Utah. There was only one
hitch. With the Uranium boom and the
subsequent population explosion, the local schools did not have enough room for
the increased enrollment. The entire third
grade of the Southeast Elementary I attended, had been moved across the street
to the Church while the school was being enlarged. I happened to be in that third grade.
That lovely September morning, I went to school just as
normal. My parents had said nothing to me about the
funeral. I may not have known that it was to be that day. I just presumed I would be going to her funeral whenever it was to be held. Shortly after the start of the school day, the
principal, Mr. Wimmer, came into the Junior Sunday School room where the entire
third grade was assembled.
“We all need to be especially quiet this morning,” he
announced, “because the funeral of a very elderly and well-respected lady, is being
held here today.”
I raised my hand. “That’s my Grandma,” I said as it dawned
on me who the funeral was for. “I’m supposed to go to her funeral.”
“If you are,” replied the principal, “someone will come and
get you.” With that, he left the room,
and we went on with our lessons.
A short time later that morning, I started hearing organ
music playing. The prelude music for Grandma’s
funeral was starting. Still, no sign of
my parents whom I assumed would appear any minute to escort me down the hall
and into the chapel. I approached my
teacher, “That’s my grandma,” I said almost tearfully. “I’m supposed to go to
her funeral.”
“If you are,” assured my teacher, “your parents will come
and get you.”
I continued to wait, as the prelude music turned into
talking. I could make out none of the muffled
words of the prayers and talks although the voices sounded familiar. Special musical numbers separated the
talking. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that I would not be attending my great grandmother’s
funeral. I felt defeated. Eventually, I was aware that all the talking
and the music had stopped. My parents and the many relatives undoubtedly had
exited the building to go to the cemetery just a few blocks away from the church.
That afternoon after school, I did not
confront my parents. I don’t think they
ever knew of my disappointment and hurt at being left out of attending Grandma
Foy’s funeral.
Even today, as I recount this story of the funeral I didn’t get to attend (although I was in the building while it was going on), the tears are
close to the surface. I find myself
wishing that I had simply slipped out of the classroom and booked it down the
hall to the chapel. I could have found
my parents and squeezed in beside them.
I doubt anyone would have disrupted the funeral to retrieve me or send
me back. It is certainly not my biggest regret
in life, but it is probably the only time I regret being too obedient.
