Three Funerals and A Wedding

Yes, I know, it’s supposed to be the other way around.

An inordinate number of elderly people are dying around me lately. If bad news comes in threes, let’s hope this is it. Because next week I’m going to my third funeral in as many weeks.

The first was the mother of a friend. She lived to 90, which is respectable, so that one I could rationalize. The second was my sister’s boyfriend’s mom. Actually, I didn’t physically attend that one, but I was with my sister in spirit. Then, earlier this week, I learned that my father’s older brother died in his sleep at 84. I don’t like it when people die in their 80s. I really don’t like it when they die in their 20s, but “she died at 90” works much better for me than “she died at 83.”

My grandfather (my uncle’s father) lived to 106, so 83 sounds “young” to me. Even my grandmother, despite having a stroke at 81, lived to one month shy of her 89th birthday. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around my uncle dying at a younger age than either of his parents.

Amid all this doom and gloom, my second niece on my dh’s side is having a wedding reception of sorts this weekend. She eloped a few months ago, in the States, but several Canadian members of the family couldn’t attend the first reception, so we’re doing it all over again. It’s a white-themed party. So everyone has to wear white.

Yeah, me and white. We’re great buddies. White and me will last about 20 seconds, until I eat something and likely drop it.

But I’ll take white over wearing black any day when it means celebrating the union of two young people.

Now, here’s a tip if you ever have to phone someone to tell them a family member has died: make double, triple, nay, quadruple sure that you HAVE THE RIGHT NAME. Of the person who died. Believe me, hearing the wrong name will give the recipients of the bad news unncessary conniptions. And hearing that you yourself have died can’t be enjoyable, either.

I’m not happy anyone died. And I’m well aware that mistakes can happen, so it’s not the fault of the person who did the calling. Next week, I’ll travel with my sisters, brother, and parents to pay my respects to my oldest uncle. I remember him painting art in his basement studio when we were kids. I remember the crazy purple lounge suits he and my father both received from their wives one Christmas. My uncle liked the suit, but my father was appalled. I think it was the only time he wore it. What can I say? He was a logger.

My uncle enjoyed gardening, boats when he was young, and his art. As the years passed and my cousins and brother and sisters grew, my uncle remarried and moved away. We didn’t see him often. But he was always pleasant to talk to, and I looked forward to seeing him every time.

Rest in Peace, William Richard Procter.