My grandfather passed away on October 26, 2009 at the age of 87. After serving as a sergeant in the army during World War II, he met my grandmother, Lillian. Together they founded a family of five children and thirteen grandchildren, of whom I am the eldest.
My grandfather’s love for his family could only be matched by his intelligence and his frugality—a trait that allowed him to put all five children through college and provided many a laugh for us over the years. (When I was thirteen years old, he paid me one dollar per hour to dig out rocks behind his musty and dusty yellow garage—$1 an hour! My mother told me that he wanted me to learn the value of hard work.)
John J. Veselka exited this life as stubbornly as he lived, refusing to hand over what was left of himself to Alzheimer’s. Our family held vigil at James G. Johnston Memorial Nursing Home for nine days before he finally released his grip on this world.
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I thought at first that I would share this vigil we kept. But in truth, by then my grandfather was already gone. By then, we were only waiting for his body to give up; his mind had already done so. Alzheimer’s is a long goodbye. The person who ultimately leaves you on that last day is not the person you miss. Sadly, that person left long ago.
So, instead, I will relate my moments of closure—those cathartic minutes where grief and sadness mixed indistinguishably with joy, gratitude, and love.
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As we wend our way up the hill to the cemetery, the clouds appear unsure if they want to rain. The snake of cars comes to a halt where, standing at ease, three soldiers in dress await my grandfather’s casket. One holds a bugle beneath his arm, its bell reflecting the somber grey skies.
In the stiff October wind, my cousins and I (the males among us) gently pull the casket along its tracks out of the hearse and onto the roller. The soldiers salute as we pass by on our way inside the atrium.
My grandmother, my parents, and my aunts and uncles fill the dozen or so chairs in the center of the space. My cousins and I and the remaining mourners gather around them, as if to hold them up. A prayer is given by Father Brown, a man who has known my grandfather for decades.
The beautiful sadness of a military funeral is something I feel blessed to have witnessed. It is an event that no words, photograph, television show or movie can capture. Nevertheless, and perhaps foolishly, I will try.
The enormity, the significance, the joy, pride, and wonder of a life lived in service of his god, country, and family is honored by two men who have never met my grandfather.
Facing each other at either end of the casket, these two servicemen silently begin folding the American flag. I hear the melancholy strains of “Taps” seep into the hall.
The soldiers’ movements are deliberate and precise, giving appropriate meaning to each fold. Their eyes remain locked as if breaking their gaze would sever the bond these men share with my grandfather.
Once folded, the flag is presented from one soldier to the other who hugs it to his chest, all the while maintaining his gaze. With flag held tight he steps rhythmically, turning at right angles towards my grandmother. He bends down on one knee, looks up at her and presents the folded flag as if it were a part of himself. His words are few, his tone warm. I hear a phrase that burrows into my brain and my heart: “On behalf of a grateful nation.”
My grandmother is composed as she takes the flag from the young man who might well have reminded her of her husband of some sixty years ago. “Thank you,” she says softly. A swirl of bagpipes fills the room as “Amazing Grace” pours out the speakers above.
We each say a last goodbye to my grandfather. I place a hand on the casket, pause, and move on to join my family outside.
I am grateful the clouds have shown restraint.
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If there is a heaven, my grandfather is there, sitting on his rickety swing made by his own two hands beneath a canopy of golden autumn leaves. He holds a can of Genesee in one hand and a bright smile adorns his face. His mind is again his own. His hearing is sharp and his hands have regained their genius for fixing all things from toasters to televisions. He takes off his blue and white Gilligan hat and peers down upon the wife and family he loves so dearly. After the last years of static and fog, it all comes in loud and clear once more.
Loud and clear.
