“Memories are like starlight. They live on forever.” ~ C.
W. McCall
It was a beautiful, spring mid-morning sky that greeted the
funeral procession as they made their way towards a vast arrangement of cars,
trucks, vans and even one or two horse-drawn carriages. The vastness of the
cloudless, deep blue sky seemed to stretch on until forever; wherever that
might find you. It appeared, however, to be mostly lost on those participants
seeking to bury the body but not the spirit of one George Franklin.
His headstone, already chosen several years before by his
darling wife and lifelong best friend, read simply, “Here lies a great man who
possessed an even greater devotion to the development of those around him.” It
wouldn’t have served him, more or less, to be burdened with such a malign title
as dignitary but you could assure
yourself that he could, on any given day, rise to the occasion of helping
someone less fortunate than himself. He relished this notion and recounted his
belief of it many times to those around him: I’ll leave a legacy of strong people, not monuments! A simple
stone, displaying simple yet dedicated craftsmanship, was to be erected where
he was finally laid to rest.
From the procession one could pick out local heroes as well
as those who’d played their part on the main stage of America both on and off
the red-carpeted floor of Congress. They’d come to pay their respects to a
simple man who refused to be draped with the political aspirations of others
but whom, it could be said, had a political opinion about everything.
Of these magicians of political rhetoric was one, John
Ruby. This still-practicing lawyer of obvious southern descent who would lay
awake nights worrying about his health and the health of his clients as they
all faced down the challenges of this information age. Some would say if he
worried half as much about his family he might have been spared the tragedy of
’77 but no man or beast would ever convince John Ruby he’d done anything more
than what God ever intended him to do.
John did have a son who survived that tragedy. However, he
was fortunately never made aware of this minor bit of trivia; a small nugget of
information that might have just sent his fare town into one hell of a tizzy.
As John climbed into his suburban he saw, from the reflection in his side mirror,
the mother of a child who was friends with his “official” son getting settled
into her car. You know, I should remember
her name. It really has been some years though.
John hoped he might be spared the embarrassment of forgetting
this poor woman’s name. She pulled in behind him as he entered the motorcade
procession. Now he was certain he’d have to face her. The cemetery was only a
few blocks from this church and he hoped he could remember her name by then. Maybe I really could have paid more
attention to my family, he thought to himself, almost dismissingly.
---
It wasn’t hard to recognize him as he stood upon the steps
of the church. He’d been seen coming into town a few days ago since news spread
so quickly after George’s death. As close as they say he had been to George it
would have been no real surprise if someone called the man out of some
important meeting or another just minutes after they stopped the clocks in the
house. There were many who suspected most of Ruby’s associations with George
were entirely fabricated but in the absence of a star witness, namely Mr.
Franklin, it was anybody’s guess whether the two had done any sort of business
together or not. As the ladies of the Women’s League were fond of saying about
George, “He does cater to lost causes more often than he should!” and don’t you
know most the townsfolk felt John Ruby was probably the most lost by far.
They’d come to honor George though and she best remember
that. Who was it that said a funeral was
for those well-wishers and temporally cheap dignitaries who couldn’t afford to
make time before they were finally out of time? More likely her father or
his good friend Karl, she suspected. How many hours had the two of them spent
in that cabin on the river anyway? She chuckled to herself, hearing her
mother’s voice in her own.
The processional motorcade ended on the curb facing a
rather sparse but growing crowd. Two tents had been erected and a slew of
chairs decked out in blue faux-fur were assembled beneath them. She emerged
from her car as she caught sight of the pall-bearers as they began congregating
behind the hearse. It looked as though Paul Laramie and his son had both been
tapped for this particular occasion; a bit unusual but not unheard of in these
parts. They both exchanged awkward glances with the rest of the ensemble and
waited patiently for a cue from the funeral director.
