I flew down to Oklahoma on Sunday. The next morning, friends and family gathered at a red brick church to remember my grandmother. It was her church, but I wasn’t so familiar with it. The one I remember from my childhood, still standing tall just down the street from her house, changed hands recently as the Methodists consolidated. This one didn’t have the right smell.
The pastor seemed nice and did a fine job, but I don’t remember much of his sermon. I appreciate the rituals — I like to see some things being kept holy — but I can’t really connect with the hope of everlasting life. My brother’s speech, on the other hand, moved me to tears. Afterward, I could only tell him it was perfect; I couldn’t manage more.
After lunch, a handful of close friends and family rode in the funeral home limos down I-44 to Fort Sill National Cemetery.
For those who have not visited this region of the country, allow me to set the scene. To the west, the weathered granite cap of Mount Scott rises from the mixed grass prairie, marking the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge. Massive wind turbines can be seen spinning in the famous Oklahoma wind just to the north of it. On this day, the occasional clap of artillery can be heard as dust clouds form in the distance. This area is among my favorites for its stark landscapes and big skies.
Here, my grandmother received a military funeral honors ceremony. During the final months of WWII and for several after, she served at the Fleet Post Office in New York. As the WAVES demobilized, she was discharged in January of 1946 with a rank of Seaman First Class.
During Taps, I noticed that my uncle, also a Navy veteran, was saluting. With his health in decline, I don’t think he recognized me and sometimes needed loving direction from his wife or daughter. But he stood at attention.
We all watched silently as a young woman in uniform folded the flag that had draped over my grandmother’s coffin. It was then presented to my aunt. After the ceremony, we waited for the completion of the interment.
On the way to my grandmother’s site, we took a few minutes to visit my dad. This was the first time I’ve seen his headstone in person. He was discharged as a Sergeant in the Air Force after serving in Taiwan during the Vietnam War. He passed away 6 years ago. My mom makes the trip from Norman every year on his birthday. I touched his headstone and we moved on.
The fresh sod and flowers stood out in my grandmother’s row. No headstone yet, that will come later. My grandfather is next to her — his marker shows a little age. While posted in New York, my grandmother met and married my grandfather (a handsome man who played guitar, in her words). He had served on the USS Raton, a submarine that saw action in the Pacific. He passed away 12 years ago.
As we walked back to the limos, I noted the symbols on the other headstones. Many Christians, of course, but also Hindu, Muslim, and several with nothing above their names.
Later that evening I played a board game with my mom, brother and sister at my sister’s house. Not long after my 9 year old nephew went to his bedroom, we heard a muffled wail. The weight of the day’s events had finally hit him. He was very close to his great-grandmother, who he will never again see in his life. His mournful cry stirred up in me a sense of loss that I haven’t felt since my dad died.
After a sleepless night, I flew home.
As I would expect is very often the case for military funerals, the theme of the day was service. And my grandmother’s service extended well beyond her time in the WAVES. She worked. On top of raising a family, she had a positive impact on many lives through volunteering: from Girl Scouts to working polls to the Oklahoma Women Veterans Organization to her church nursery and Sunday school and more.
My grandmother was also an ornery Yankee Democrat. One of the best kinds. So I couldn’t help it as my thoughts drifted toward politics during the funeral. I couldn’t help but think of how my grandmother, of humble means and small stature, towers over the current leader of the GOP. She and millions of other Americans committed to service shame that rent-seeking, self-absorbed fraud, whose idea of sacrifice is the ‘work’ he puts in while exploiting others for profit.
How so many of those very same Americans can bring themselves to vote for the man is an open question for me.
Part of the answer may be the crusade against government that has been waged by greedy interests for so many years. The idea that government service is service now seems to be lost on many. The stage has been set such that the GOP can brazenly advocate the destruction of entire institutions. I can understand the appeal: it is easier to destroy than to reform, to make false promises of prosperity rather than to strive toward real and often messy solutions. And it can take courage to reach out to other tribes for the common good; in this regard, many Republican lawmakers have proven themselves to be cowards. I’m not sure how we can restore faith in our institutions, and in each other, in the face of such rampant and self-serving polarization.
Political gridlock is not our only problem, of course. Life is difficult in spite of (and sometimes because of) our technology. We all must face death, pain and loss. We often have little say over our circumstances, and if that wasn’t enough, other humans can make our lives a hell. It’s tempting to give in to hopelessness and cynicism, yet somehow, against all odds, people keep working. For good. For change. For each other. People like my grandmother. People like you.
There is something holy in that, I think.