On Saturday, on the way to a wedding, I attended my Uncle Woody’s funeral service.

I say, “on the way to a wedding,” because that’s the truth. I had taken the weekend and Monday off from work, as I explained to my boss, “for a wedding and Passover.”

“I thought it was just Passover,” he said.

“No, it was always supposed to be the wedding and then Passover … and then the funeral just kinda popped up, as they tend to do.”

“Yeah,” he said. “They do seem to have a way of doing that, at the worst possible times.”

Yep.

I got the call that Woody died while I was at work, from my Grandma. Coincidence or not, the news of his death came on the same day that I told a joke I hadn’t told in years, and after hearing about Woody, I couldn’t help but think about the joke:

An 80-year-old man is about to marry a 50-year-old woman. Before the wedding, the two of them decide to schedule appointments with their doctors, just to make sure they’re in good health and all that before starting their life together.

So the old man goes to his checkup, and the doctor tells him, “Sir, you seem to be in excellent health.”

“That’s great news, Doc,” the old man says.

The doctor nods. “It is,” he says, “although I do have a couple concerns.”

“Oh?”

“Um, I don’t know quite how to put this, but … there’s a major age difference between you and your bride-to-be, and I know that certain things typically happen on wedding nights, and, well … when people get advanced in age … sexual intercourse can pose a serious health risk.”

“Well, Doc,” the 80-year-old man, about to marry a 50-year-old woman, says, “If she dies … she dies.”

Why did this joke remind me of Woody? Because Woody married my Aunt Sue, and – although I don’t know their exact ages – the discrepancy in years between them mirrored that of the couple described in the joke. Woody came into my aunt’s life after she had spent 50-60 years of life as a bachelorette, and she admitted that she never thought she’d find anyone – until Woody came along. Many years her senior, she said that he “courted” her persistently, and despite her vacillation, he kept on keeping on and eventually won her over. It’s a good thing that he did, because the pair of them shared an inspiring love and companionship for a number of years. It was a great thing to see.

Apparently, Woody died from a sudden onset of leukemia after he had been hospitalized for other reasons which I was not made aware of. It was a surprise not just to me, though, but to my aunt as well, who had expected him to come out of it.

The funeral service was unlike any I’ve ever attended. It followed the Quaker tradition of having friends and relatives share stories and memories of the deceased, which I think is a great idea. The whole thing had a very nice feel to it. I’ve been to more than my fair share of funerals – I won’t say, “too many,” because the longer you live, the more funerals you’ll attend; to know life is to know death – and of the funerals I’ve been to, this was one of the most enjoyable. I don’t mean that it was happy, but it wasn’t nearly as sad as some others, where someone was taken ‘too soon.’ Woody had lived a long, healthy life, had enjoyed the comforts of family and friends, the blessings of love and children, and had died of natural causes at the ripe age of 92. Of course, we felt sad at his passing, but I don’t think anyone felt cheated out of their time with him.

Actually, that’s not true; I felt a little cheated out of my time with him – and I said so. I didn’t expect to speak at the service, but then, neither did most of us. As it turned out, the entire female side of my family approached the podium – first my cousin, then my mom, then my aunt (my uncle whispered in my ear that “She doesn’t want to be outdone by her sister”), then my grandmother, who read an excerpt from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “A Psalm of Life.” (Definitely worth interrupting this blog post to read.)

A couple other people spoke, followed by an incredibly awkward silence. Nobody got up to speak, and I’m sure everyone thought, “Is no one else gonna go?” I told myself, “Self … if you count to 10, and nobody else goes, get up there and speak. One Mississippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi … 10 Mississippi.” I got up and walked nervously toward the podium, having only a vague idea what I’d say once I got there.

“I didn’t know Woody all that well,” I began, “and when Grandma told me he died, my immediate reaction was that I never got to talk to him about his past. You know, I only knew him in the context of his relationship with you,” I said, looking at my aunt … who I looked at almost exclusively during my speech, as I didn’t feel comfortable addressing anyone else at the moment, really.

“And that was really only a portion of his life. I’ve got no idea what he was like as a boy, or a young man, all through – 92 years was it? – 92 years. That’s a long life.” My aunt nodded.

“So part of me is upset that I never got the chance to ask him about all that he did … but I guess the important thing is that he got to do those things, not whether I got to ask him about them.

“One thing I will say about Woody was just the sense I had about him. Woody became part of the family, very naturally. He had such a peace about him – much like your (Aunt Sue’s) father – the two of them really struck me as people who were just happy to be wherever they were, as long as they were with the people they cared about.

“It’s interesting that my Aunt Marilyn, when she spoke, referred to Woody as ‘such a young, old person.’ It’s interesting because, whenever I greeted or said goodbye to Woody, I always found myself saying, ‘Hello, Young Man!’ or ‘Great seeing you, Young Man.’ Me, saying that to him … I guess it was something that I did subconsciously, just because of the way he was.

“I’m very lucky to have examples like Woody in my life,” I concluded. “And I’m very thankful to have known him.”

Other people came up to speak – people who knew Woody far better than I – and I think everyone walked away from there feeling better about his death than when they arrived. As we all prepared to go our separate ways – for my mom, her boyfriend, and I, that meant heading north to the wedding, “Circle of Life” style – I noticed two easels that had been set up with pictures of Woody, whose birth name, I found out, was “DeForrest.”

There were some pictures of him with my aunt, in his later years, some of him with his first wife, some with his kids. Then there were some of him – these were my favorites – wearing his Air Force uniform as a young pilot during World War II. One of them, which my dad called “a classic World War II army shot,” featured him in full costume, his eyes gazing upward, with a giant, carefree smile painting his face. There was even a picture of him as a very young boy, presumably with a sibling and his father, the children sitting on their father’s knees in front of a Depression-era home.

I smiled, for I had gone into the day regretting that I knew hardly anything about Woody’s life, and now … Well, I won’t say that I know more than a little bit, but at least I have some idea. And I’m very thankful for that.

Farewell, Young Man.

by

by