Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

I wanted to pump the brakes.

The gathering made me want to slow down.

It caused me to wish that I could revisit the past and confabulate with the dearly departed.

It was a wake.

A wake is a ceremony most often taking place at a funeral home. It’s a rite demonstrating that the death of one affects a group.

A wake originally was a late-night prayer vigil, but it’s now mostly used for social interaction.

You know the routine. We do what we’ve already done. We enter the funeral home and fall into a line that could be in any form but straight. A sympathy card is dropped into the proper receptacle and a program, a small brochure containing the obituary, photo, and other memories, is picked up.

There is often something like “The Fallen Limb” included in its pages. It was written by that famous author, Unknown, and goes like this, “A limb has fallen from the family tree. I keep hearing a voice that says, ‘Grieve not for me. Remember the best times, the laughter, the song. The good life I lived while I was strong. Continue my heritage, I’m counting on you. Keep smiling and surely the sun will shine through. My mind is at ease, my soul is at rest. Remembering all, how I truly was blessed. Continue traditions, no matter how small. Go on with your life, don’t worry about falls. I miss you all dearly, so keep up your chin. Until the day comes we’re together again.’”

Sometimes there is a memory penned by the deceased. I find these particularly touching. A possible personalized note to guests might go something like this, “I cherish your friendship and hope that I’m remembered fondly. I’m sorry if I ever offended you and ask your forgiveness. Don’t weep for me. Rather, take someone you love out for dinner and listen deeply. When I meet my God, I hope He judges me with more compassion than justice.”

I visited with fellow members of the line. We reminisced about the deceased and counted our blessings aloud.

The wake brings a flood of memories that had been hiding.

We say things like, “We need to stop meeting like this,” and “He was a lifelong Twins fan, but I don’t think that’s what killed him.”

I read the obituary. I’d forgotten that Audrey Johnson was his ex-sister-in-law. That divorce had been a keeper.

The plain, unvarnished truth is varnished. No one shows only his best side, yet people say nice things without adding, “I’m not making this up.”

At one wake, a widow, after being told by mourners of the good traits of her dead husband — how honest, how respectful of others, and what a loving husband and father he’d been — told one of her children, “Take a good look in that coffin and make sure that’s your father in there!”

There is a world of words out there, but when such a line moves me to the family members, I never know what to say. The best and most beautiful of words seems inadequate.

Waiting in line should give me enough time to come up with the perfect thing to say, but it doesn’t work that way. Poetry should form, but it does not.

All wakes are hard, regardless of the deceased’s condition or age. Because life isn’t as soft as pillows, people ask, “Who wants to live to be 100?”

The answer to that question is the man who is 99 years old.

The fellow whom I honored by standing in line had shuffled off this mortal coil a few odometer clicks before his 94th birthday. He’d been a good guy and as healthy as a horse.

One of his boys was my age. We were teenagers together, living through those difficult times when our well-meaning, but misguided parents thought they knew more than we did.

I remembered my schoolmate as a talented athlete, specializing in moving smoothly down a playground slide.

Years passed like days.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” I said, meaning more than that as I shook hands with my friend. “I’m glad I knew your father.”

“Thanks for being here,” he said. “It means a lot.”

There was a bit of silence as we both remembered things.

I thought I’d try saying something uplifting, so I added, “He had a good long run.”

“Yes, he did,” replied the son, with a nod towards the casket, “That’s the sickest he has ever been.”

Hartland resident Al Batt’s column appears every Wednesday.