Education, neckties, cowboy boots and spiritual humor

For the first time in my life, someone broached the subject about what I might be wearing at the time of my departure from this earthly life.

No, I’m not referring to what I might be wearing at the time of my inevitable demise. But what I might be wearing when they plant me six feet beneath the surface.

Maybe the conversation was my fault. (Most are.)

I made the mistake of mentioning that I did not want to be wearing a tie when my six friends (if I can find six) carry me up that hill.

“I was thinking about that,” my better half said. “I can’t see you wanting to be buried in a suit and tie.”

“YOU WERE THINKING ABOUT IT?!!” I asked with all the faked incredulousness that I could muster.

(Talk about your reasons to sleep with one eye opened.)

Granted, it is a natural fact, that at 52, I’ve been around longer than I am going to be around. I get that.

So, just for the record, no, I do not want to have a necktie party upon my planting. A comfortable pair of old Levi’s will do just fine. Maybe an ND football cap (with the bill down over my eyes) and an Irish sweatshirt, too. You know the one. Better leave me a ball glove just in case there’s baseball in Heaven. (Sure hope I’m not pitching tomorrow.)

* * *

Two weeks ago was the 25th anniversary of my father’s death by cancer. In his case, a more horrible ending to a life I cannot imagine. My mother, suffice it to say, is a saint for what she endured in 1988 and 1989. (1990 turned out to be a real kick in the backside, too.)

I shared this story with just a few good friends, including my dad’s former surveying business partner and longtime family friend, Jim Surber. Jim suggested that I share it with you.

You will get a more homogenized version.

For me, May is a tough nut of a month. But May 9 was a good day this year.

Before I continue, you must understand that my dad had a great sense of humor and he loved practical jokes. To this day, I swear he is the reason I laughed at his graveside funeral service. (Ask me, sometime, about my grandmother and the holy water.)

On Friday, May 9, I planned my day to end up where I usually begin: In Adams County. At a country cemetery just a few miles south of our home.

The weather was a bit overcast. In May 1989, it was cold and raining. On May 9, 2014, I stood in the same spot where I stood 25 years ago. It began to rain. Almost as if on cue. I smiled.

Then, I thought of the Nikon camera I usually travel with and I also thought of my three sisters, none of whom lives so close to this rural cemetery.

I snapped a few photos.

Our dad’s tombstone was rather barren. I looked around. Laying on the ground about halfway between his stone and a neighbor’s eternal marker just to the west was a brand-new floral arrangement. For the sake of argument, let’s just say I “borrowed” the flowers.

I snapped a new photo.

I sent the photo to my sisters. I put the flowers back in between the two markers.

One sister replied with a message of thanks for my “good deed.”

Feeling almost, but not quite guilty, I responded that my alleged good deed did not involve my purchase of said floral arrangement, only that I temporarily “borrowed” it.

With this new revelation, my youngest sister replied that not only is her brother a real (piece of something), she is now laughing.

This all transpired between 4 and 5 p.m. Friday, May 9, 2014. Not long after, I shared the story with my son, Colin. He said, quite accurately: “They have a special place in hell for people like you.”

Then I suggested we go back to the cemetery, which we did.

Here’s the kicker.

Without saying a word to anyone, on Thursday, May 8, Colin had purchased and placed this exact flower arrangement on his grandfather’s grave.

Imagine Colin’s surprise when he realized that his old man had simply (and, yes, unknowingly) righted an earlier wrong at the cemetery.

Oh, they still have a special place in hell for me, all right. But it’s not for returning the flowers to my father’s gravesite. Personally, I suspect my dad’s ghost rose late Thursday evening, May 8 after noticing his grandson’s good deed. His spirit then spirited away the flowers.

No doubt, he did this with the full knowledge that I would stop by on the 25th anniversary of his passing and, being too cheap to bring flowers, would simply “borrow” a bouquet or two.

Let us close this little story with an appropriate message from Proverbs, Chapter 14, Verse 13: Even in laughter the heart is sorrowful.

* * *

I learned a lot from my dad. I still do.

That’s how it is – and always should be – with education. It is a lifelong process.

This past Saturday, Xavier University held its 176th commencement ceremonies.

Among the graduates was 90-year-old Walter Bunker, a World War II veteran.

According to the university, Mr. Bunker’s degree had been a long time coming. It’s been seven decades, in fact, since he started working on it.

Now with 10 children of his own, all of whom have college degrees, he had been feeling “a little out of place.”

I have three children, all of whom have college degrees. Since birth, they have heard their parents stress the importance of education.

Mr. Bunker’s story is on our website. If you have a few moments, please read it at: http://highlandcountypress.com/main.asp?SectionID=2&SubSectionID=75&ArticleID=22792&TM=54976.12.

This World War II veteran and cancer survivor is truly an inspiration.

I know a couple of members of his family. They are quite proud of Walt. They should be.

When the 90-year-old Mr. Bunker was asked what he wants to do with his degree from Xavier, he replied, “I want to be a cowboy.”

That reminds me. Pam, I want to wear my cowboy boots, too.

Rory Ryan is publisher and owner of The Highland County Press.