Spectacles

The year was 1962, and I was still three years of age, nearing four in a few months. It was then that my Grandmother’s brother, Great Uncle Jack, died. I remember traveling to his funeral with my mother, father, and nine-year old sister, Debra. I loved most road trips, and my sister and I always rode in the back seat of the large, oversized Chevy Impala. By the time we had reached our destination after a two-hour journey, it was already twilight.

As we drove up, I remember looking at the foreboding structure of the funeral home before we removed ourselves from the car. It had actually, at one time, been a large, ornate home, but now it seemed to take on a life of its own in the shadow of the twilight hour. I remember feeling a huge amount of wariness as we climbed the steps and entered its foyer, as if inherently knowing there was only sorrow that resided therein.

The foyer and adjacent room were full of many people, some that I knew and many others that I did not. My parents, my sister, and I gravitated over to my grandparents, who were in the adjacent room. They were standing beside a large, oblong box that sat high above the ground. The box was so tall, and I was so tiny that it was impossible for me to see what was inside of it. Curious because everyone else was peering in it, I immediately tugged on my father’s pants, asking him to lift me up in his arms so that I could see inside the long box. Much to my dismay, he and my mother shrugged off my requests, making excuses, and my grandfather even attempted to dissuade me from my interest as to what lay in the box, asking me to accompany him elsewhere. It did no good. Everyone about me, including my sister, was able to see in that long box, and I wanted to be able to do the same; my mind could not be changed. I became impatient and somewhat furious for not being allowed to see inside the box, fearing others beheld a long lost secret of which I was not privy. It was not long before I proceeded to throw what many would call a toddler’s temper tantrum.

You would think that one of my parents would have promptly taken me outside and laid into me (and my back side), admonishing me to listen and do as I was told. But such was not the case. Instead, my father proceeded (against my mother’s wishes) to lift me in his arms so that I could see inside the long box, which of course, was Great Uncle Jack’s resting place. I still remember that they told me Uncle Jack was only ‘sleeping’.

All I recall is that I became immediately silent as I stared at the man who lay inside the long box or coffin. He wore round, horn-rimmed spectacles even though his eyes were closed, and he did, in fact, appear to be sleeping. I wondered why he needed the eye spectacles if he was sleeping - or as everyone else around me whispered, if he was dead. Glancing down along his neatly suited body, I noticed that the bottom half of the box’s lid lay over his lower half, and I wondered where his legs and feet were, because as he was positioned, it did not appear he had any. I had never known anyone who had slept in such a way or in such a box. I remembered wondering if they had removed his legs for him to fit inside the box.

Satisfied that I had at long last seen what was in the long box, although much to my dismay, I allowed my father to lower me back to the ground, not asking again to see inside the coffin. I knew I had seen more than enough. I remember being afraid, and for the remainder of the evening, I clung to my mother’s hand, ever close to the hem of her dress.

A few hours later after the skies had darkened and the moon had risen high in the sky, we proceeded to load ourselves back into the large Chevy and head back to our home in Charleston. My sister, evidently unfazed by the night’s events, dozed on the far right side of the back seat while I hunkered down on the left side of the floorboard directly behind the driver’s seat. I was scared and frightened by what I had seen in that large box at the old funeral home. The spectacles that Uncle Jack had worn in his state of rest haunted me, as did the absence of his lower legs, feet, and shoes. Even later when I was home and in the comfort of my own bed, visions of Uncle Jack’s spectacles and missing legs continued to plague me.

Many years later, when I was thirteen years of age, my grandfather died, and it was only then that I realized why such things had been done. At thirteen, and then later at sixteen when my mother died, I became more fully aware of the realm of death in terms of a coffin, the manner of being laid to rest, and funeral homes. To this day, I have never been able to adjust to the idea of this custom even though for many, it is a sense of immense comfort.

It may seem silly to the average person, but to me, my memory of Uncle Jack is one that lingers quite vividly despite the lapse of sixty years since that event. And as a result of my traumatic visitation with Great Uncle Jack and his looming spectacles when I was only three and a half, I have no desire whatsoever to be confined inside a coffin while wearing my glasses. I, instead, will choose cremation and the spreading of my ashes any place or places that I enjoy being during years of living.

I realize that it’s all preferential in regard to such matters, and that everyone’s wishes, desires, and need for comfort varies immensely. I mean no disrespect, but for me, cremation and the spreading of ashes will provide the comfort that I seek while others may secure their own by being confined and lowered into the ground. However, such is not the vision that I embody in my less than earthly years. And it is with all thanks to that first brush of death with Uncle Jack and his spectacles at the tender age of three.