The Worst Place in the World
Back in college a professor asked us to write about the worst place in the world. It was just a one-page writing assignment where we were supposed to write about sights, sounds, smells, and feelings. The idea was to be descriptive about why we hated visiting the place and why we never, ever wanted to go back there. I wrote about the dumps where as a child I would ride with my father as we got rid of the garbage for the week. I certainly could recall the rats, the odors, and the drive up there as we ditched the many bags of garbage generated by eight people in the course of the week. I think I did all right on the assignment, but I clearly missed the boat. The worst place in the world is the funeral home in my hometown. I hate that place.
When we would return from the dumps my dad would often coast home. There were enough hills on Shirley Road for him to just shut the car down and ride slowly to our driveway. I can even recall that he let me sit on his lap once and steer the car. He wasn't Britney Spears being irresponsible, he was just allowing me a chance not to hate the dumps so much.
Which brings me to the positive side of the other worst place in town. A gathering at the funeral home in town often brings me face-to-face with people that I love. In the gathering of ultimate sadness I often share hugs and sorrow with those people I grew up with, but through the time and circumstances involved with living, I don't see much anymore. That's the only possible silver lining.
My hands get clammy and I often feel as though I'm going to pass out. It always seems so hot in that funeral home, and the hushed words and muted cries make me feel dizzy. When I was a kid I would often grab a comb that was wrapped in plastic and handed out for anyone who forgot to comb their hair. I have little use for a new comb these days.
And then there is the dizzying walk to say a prayer for the lost loved one. The family stands there to greet you as you arrive at the foot of the casket, and the ability to speak is suddenly gone. I always feel like a complete babbling idiot as I attempt to say something, anything that will not embarrass me for the rest of my life. At my wake I want a full bar assembled where people are allowed to do a shot before viewing me. I have a few good buddies who'll stay for hours.
Yet I always remind myself that there is beauty in the ritual. It isn't about me and my difficulty in speaking. Rather it is about the love of a town and the unbelievably compassionate attempt to show love in the face of bitter sadness. The words that come out are so much less important than the effort to stand before loved ones and say "I'm sorry," and imply or even verbalize that love is filling your heart in the face of death.
I always, always think of Tom Joad's mother in that situation as I walk back away from the casket. "What are we going to do now?" Tom's father asks after Tom is forced to leave the family, knowing that he'd never see them again.
"We're going to go on," Tom's mother says. (And I'm paraphrasing) "Because we need to live and to love and to believe that God is there for us because without hope and belief, what else is there?"
Unfortunately, as we made our way back from the dumps all those years ago, in the back of my mind, I knew that there was more garbage to be delivered next week. I hardly ever thought about that - instead, I enjoyed the ride home and the touch of my father, or the laughter with my brothers and sisters.
It never occurred to me, but those trips to and from the dumps did a lot to prepare me for the truly worst place to visit.
When we would return from the dumps my dad would often coast home. There were enough hills on Shirley Road for him to just shut the car down and ride slowly to our driveway. I can even recall that he let me sit on his lap once and steer the car. He wasn't Britney Spears being irresponsible, he was just allowing me a chance not to hate the dumps so much.
Which brings me to the positive side of the other worst place in town. A gathering at the funeral home in town often brings me face-to-face with people that I love. In the gathering of ultimate sadness I often share hugs and sorrow with those people I grew up with, but through the time and circumstances involved with living, I don't see much anymore. That's the only possible silver lining.
My hands get clammy and I often feel as though I'm going to pass out. It always seems so hot in that funeral home, and the hushed words and muted cries make me feel dizzy. When I was a kid I would often grab a comb that was wrapped in plastic and handed out for anyone who forgot to comb their hair. I have little use for a new comb these days.
And then there is the dizzying walk to say a prayer for the lost loved one. The family stands there to greet you as you arrive at the foot of the casket, and the ability to speak is suddenly gone. I always feel like a complete babbling idiot as I attempt to say something, anything that will not embarrass me for the rest of my life. At my wake I want a full bar assembled where people are allowed to do a shot before viewing me. I have a few good buddies who'll stay for hours.
Yet I always remind myself that there is beauty in the ritual. It isn't about me and my difficulty in speaking. Rather it is about the love of a town and the unbelievably compassionate attempt to show love in the face of bitter sadness. The words that come out are so much less important than the effort to stand before loved ones and say "I'm sorry," and imply or even verbalize that love is filling your heart in the face of death.
I always, always think of Tom Joad's mother in that situation as I walk back away from the casket. "What are we going to do now?" Tom's father asks after Tom is forced to leave the family, knowing that he'd never see them again.
"We're going to go on," Tom's mother says. (And I'm paraphrasing) "Because we need to live and to love and to believe that God is there for us because without hope and belief, what else is there?"
Unfortunately, as we made our way back from the dumps all those years ago, in the back of my mind, I knew that there was more garbage to be delivered next week. I hardly ever thought about that - instead, I enjoyed the ride home and the touch of my father, or the laughter with my brothers and sisters.
It never occurred to me, but those trips to and from the dumps did a lot to prepare me for the truly worst place to visit.
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