More funeral thoughts

Attending a recent funeral made me think of my uncle’s funeral nearly 2 years ago.

Ricky was, for lack of a better term, a rounder. From dictionary.com, a rounder is described as: “a dissolute person, usually a man who is morally unrestrained.” Yeah, that was my uncle. He lived his life for him. He didn’t love anyone or anything more than himself, except possibly, cocaine. His pall-bearers wore NASCAR shirts. I may have been the only person, other than the funeral directors, who wore a tie. They played some odd songs, ending with one about “I’m the last rebel; I'm a loner; Nobody loves or understands me” or something to that effect. It was surreal that even in death, he tried to play the victim role. He wanted sympathy and attention, even in the plans he laid out for his own funeral.

I hadn’t talked to him for a number of years before he killed himself. Ricky did call a family member on Easter Sunday a year before he died. He told the family member that he was in the final stage of cancer and was about to die. By all accounts, that was a lie. My guess is, based on his history, that it was a ploy to get sympathy or money. A long-time friend of his found what ultimately was his suicide note, his goodbye to the world. Tim loved Ricky like a brother, despite all the mess he had to go through to remain friends. Tim told me about the note...and that while it didn't expressly say he was going to kill himself, it eluded to that fact. It wasn’t a traditional suicide…no overdose or gunshot. He drove into an 18-wheeler at a high rate of speed, probably drunk or high, and got decapitated. That ended a life full of opportunities missed.

At his “visitation” and funeral, I saw some family members I’d not seen since my grandmother’s funeral in ’97. Attending were a great aunt (the “matriarch” of the family), a great uncle (the spitting image of my grandfather), and a host of 2nd cousins and their spouses. There were a number of stories being told, most I’d heard before. I found it funny how time changes a person’s memory though. Some of the stories being told, I’d actually witnessed. Other stories, I’d heard from my mom, my grandmother, or Ricky himself.

My great aunt, sister to my grandfather, was telling versions of stories I’d never heard before. Oh, I’d heard the stories…just not her version of them. She told everyone how my grandmother “never wanted Ricky.” I, of course, hold a different view of reality. My grandmother had a difficult pregnancy with my mother. Difficult pregnancies in 1950 weren’t anything to take lightly. My grandmother was not excited when she found out she was pregnant again 3 years later. That, all these years later, turned into her not wanting him.

My aunt also said Ricky was mistreated, abused, and never loved. This could not be further from the truth. Ricky was a problem from the time he was very young. His wild nature could not be controlled, no matter what my grandparents tried. He stayed in trouble all throughout his childhood. I suppose my grandparents’ inability to control him fueled the “mistreated” view. As far as abuse is concerned, I heard the story she referred to from my mom, my grandmother, and Ricky himself. When he was 14 or 15, he took a loaded gun to school because he was being picked on. We’re talking about 1967 or ’68. He got caught and was promptly expelled. When my grandfather got home from work, he got the full story and went to confront Ricky, and to find out why it happened. Ricky got defensive and, during the confrontation, hit my grandfather. My grandfather told him that if he tried that again, he’d better be man enough to deal with the consequences. Ricky took another swing and my grandfather “beat the stew out of him” (my grandmother’s words). That was the only time he was ever “abused.”

As far as love goes, I cannot begin to list the ways our family tried to show him love. I can’t count the times my grandmother paid for him to go to rehab. I can’t remember the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th “chances” he got from me alone…much less everyone else. In my grandmother’s will, money was set aside for the express purpose of paying for his funeral. She was wise enough to know that he’d die alone and penniless. She bought him a plot in the cemetery, a casket, and paid for it all. Had he been unloved, she wouldn’t have had the forethought to do that for him. I wanted to ask my aunt whom she thought was paying for that funeral and set her straight, but I kept my mouth shut.

My aunt told a story of my grandmother’s “refusal” to buy him a plane ticket home from California when my mom died. The truth is that she DID buy him a plane ticket. As a matter of fact, I drove her to the travel agency to purchase it. He turned it in for cash and bought drugs with the money. I think he showed us how much he loved my mom with his actions. Again, I kept my mouth shut.

I also wanted to tell other stories…stories that could not paint Ricky as a victim. He chose his life and lived it on his terms. I wanted to remind them that he joined the Navy out of high school to prevent himself from going to jail. I wanted to explain how he spent most of his time in the Navy in the Brig. I wanted to remind them of his 2 failed marriages and 3 children with whom he had no relationship. I thought they needed to know about how he bragged about his $1000 per day cocaine habit in the early 80’s. I wanted to explain to everyone that after he roughed-up my great-grandmother for drug money in the summer of 1991, I went looking for him. If I’d found him that day, we’d have had his funeral many years earlier and I’d have been in jail. I wanted to tell them about his moving back home to “take care of” my grandmother when she was sick with cancer. He hadn’t been back 24 hours when he started taking things out of the house and pawning them or selling them outright for drug money. I wanted them to know that after the settling of my grandmother’s estate, that he sold her car before the ink was dry on his signing the title. He bought cocaine with the money. He was not shy about admitting when he used drugs, and told me regularly. There are many other stories I could have told. Wisely, I kept my mouth shut.

So, what is my point? Am I just bashing my uncle? That is not my intent. I loved Ricky. Until I was old enough to realize what he really was, there was nobody I’d rather have spent time with. This is just my therapy. It’s my way to get things out. My grandparents were good people. They were far from perfect, but they did their best with Ricky. He chose his life. He chose rebellion. He chose self-destruction. There was nothing my grandparents could have done to prevent it. My grandmother prayed for him multiple times every day until she died. He was constantly exposed to the truth. He chose to live in hell when he was alive. A lot of people who loved him were singed by his flames. I hope that somewhere in his life, he got things right with God. I hope that the hell he lived on earth was not a fore-taste of his eternity.