Before proceeding with this report, I'd like to take a moment to say thank you to all the members of this community who have expressed their condolences and offered words of inspiration and comfort on the loss of my father, who passed away 15 February, 2011.

At least one person – I think it was the pastor – mentioned 'the greatest generation' when speaking of him. I forgive him. I don't think my dad or anyone else who lived through the war would have laid claim to the title of greatness. I think he would have said that he did the best he could with what he had, and that he expected no more or less from others. He was a very kind, concerned man who 'never met a stranger'. He will be missed.

Since people were kind enough to take an interest, I thought I would offer an account of the ceremonies surrounding his passing.

Saturday morning: What am I doing in this funeral home with my sister, looking down at the shell of what used to be my father? The man my cousin's wife called in a poem 'the gentle giant' looked shrunken in his last days, but my sister has wisely directed the that background cloth and arrangement of the coffin make this less noticeable. His suit is, as always, impeccable, the tie and tie clasp exactly as he would have arranged it himself. His large, capable hands are folded in a characteristic gesture, dignified. Care has been taken with the curls of his white hair. I look down and think, it isn't him, because he's not there, but it looks like him. My sister frowns.

'Something is not quite right.' I look again, and agree.

'He's too pale,' I venture. We explain to the funeral director about his coloration. The funeral director looks from me to my sister, studying matched, flushed cheekbones. He smiles, nods, disappears, returns with make-up kit. As we direct the alteration to a more natural colour, my sister whispers:

'Do you realize how hard he'd laugh if he knew we were doing this?' I nodded. But he looked right now, with the flag draped over the bottom end of the casket, and we went on to deciding where the photos and memorabilia would go, where the flowers would be, and got ready to receive the rest of the relatives for the Family Visitation. We wanted to give our stepmother some private time to say good-bye. It had only been a few days.

It had only been five days since I'd spoken with him, calling from my place to wish him a happy Valentine's Day. If I'd known it was the last time, what would I have said? I doubt I could have said more than I did, which was basically, 'I love you, Dad.' The Family Visitation went well, and the relatives broke for a late lunch. The restaurant announced, 'Gheorgheni, party of 22', and some of us took over the Cracker Barrel for awhile.

Back at home, we collected memorabilia: my dad's war medal and citation, the photo of him in uniform that I'd brought down, photos taken with his first and second wives, all to arrange at the funeral home. We chatted about them, sat down for a bit, then headed back for the ordeal – three solid hours of Viewing.

What a mix of people. Former colleagues, people from churches, various religious projects – the Prison Ministry, Gideons International, both of them grateful for my father's work over the years. Lots of friends and neighbours, all of whom took home the little booklet that was both a programme for Sunday's funeral and a keepsake with a biographical sketch, some of it taken from the obituary I'd written.

I write a lot of things. Writing an obituary for my father wasn't the easiest thing I've ever written. It was going to be in five newspapers, so I thought I ought to do as good a job as I could. My sisters were satisfied.

By 8 p.m., we were exhausted. We managed to get back to the house for a few minutes, pick up an unhappy Ariel (not only had he been left alone with my dad's dog, Haley, but chow hound Haley had stolen his dinner), and get to our sleeping place for the night.

Sunday morning we spent in quiet reflection at my stepsister's. Her garden was full of beautiful birds. Life went on in the Piedmont, even as I donned a suit and put one of my dad's handkerchiefs in the front pocket. Then it was off to the church in a limousine, long, slow procession.

Trials dark on ev'ry hand, and we cannot understand

All the ways that God would lead us to that blessed promised land,

But he'll guide us with his eye, and we'll follow till we die,

We will understand it better by and by.

By and by, when the morning comes…

I'd helped pick out the hymns. One of my sisters said, 'I thought of that one, too.' What the pastor, a Reformed Presbyterian, said, was this:

'Mr G joined our church, but he was really a Baptist all his life. So, folks, we're going to sing this Baptist song.' The music director got into the spirit of it, hand-directing in old-fashioned Baptist style for all he was worth. We loved it.

The pastor had personal words about my father – a man whose main concern in life was that he make sure that every single person he ever met got to go to heaven. To that end, he distributed Bibles. At the dinner afterwards, one of the Gideons gave us each a copy of a photograph. In it, my father, grinning, natty and correct in a suit, but with a baseball cap, holding a huge stack of New Testaments in each massive hand. A two-fisted distributor of the Gospel. A man who spent most Sunday mornings, not in church, but in jail. Where he spoke softly, and was listened to intently. Where he took names and phone numbers, and called relatives and pastors, comforting mothers, finding suits and good shoes for court dates, lining up starter jobs for 'after', redirecting lives whenever and wherever he could…wanting everybody to know what he believed: that there was hope out there, and comfort in that Book. He didn't apologise for what he believed in. I will not apologise for the way he practiced what he believed. He shared what he had, open-handed and freely. I remembered the homeless man he'd taken to lunch one day. I remembered a lot of things. I won't tell you all of them.

At the cemetery, the Last Man Club was waiting. One of them leaned over and warned us, 'This is gonna be loud.' I was puzzled. Of course gunfire is loud…and then it came. My hearing aids went crazy. It wasn't until they handed me the bag of fifteen spent shells that I realized why…

They weren't firing rifles. They were firing shotguns. They may not have woken the dead, but they probably woke the neighbours. Who said, 'Oh, it's another veteran headed home.' Then they played 'Taps', and folded the flag to give to my stepmother.

Catered dinner afterwards, hors d'oeuvres by nephew. He's a chef. Everybody did what they could, and this was his bit for his granddad. No alcohol – he wouldn't have approved. (The fact that the Pontefract, Yorkshire, Buffaloes drank a toast to him is an honour I appreciate. We won't tell him, though.) We had a final chance to talk, promise to stay in touch, then they began to scatter. Back to Michigan, Tennessee, Georgia, Pennsylvania, New York. The old, the young. Sad – we're going to miss him – but happy, as well.

He had the send-off he wanted, my dad. He made a lot of people happier, and they wanted to say so. They got the chance.

Rest in peace, Daddy. I'll see you again one day. Oh, and thanks again for everything. I love you.

Dmitri Gheorgheni

28.02.11 Front Page

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