The second year without VST is proving to be a journey all its own. After the first year, the journey through widowhood should settle into the quiet rhythm of my forever. Or so, I thought. Just as many surprises arise as each day passes, as I now find myself at the threshold of another first anniversary. That of VST’s memorial.
Growing up in a tiny Volga German community, death provided a strict set of guidelines. From a child’s point of view, your status in life was indicated by the funeral home your family chose when a loss came. Never even knowing there was more than one in town, when it was time for a funeral everyone met at Loyal’s Funeral Home. A majestic white mansion rich in dark woods and heavy draperies. There was a large parlor in which a widow, if she chose, could sit with her beloved during visiting hours. Visitations were equal to church Sunday, and respectful attire and behavior were expected. Nothing less would be tolerated. The guest of honor lay in open casket for all to view.
Cemeteries were segregated by groups. Not intentionally. It was just the way life unfolded. The Germans wanted to be with Germans. The Italians with Italians. The Hmongs with Hmongs. Through the years, the groups cluster in perfect definition, telling a story of the people of a little farming town grown big. Our cemetery is now in the worst area of my old town, with monuments and headstones from the 1900’s in an arrested state of decay. Each time I visit my Great Grandparents, Grandparents, and Parents, the hunt for their plots is tricky. After trial and area, there the six are, nestled together in their little family unit. Lined up and tidy, together forever, they’re surrounded by their Volga German friends and neighbors.
Walking around their plots, names of the past ring out. Scheidt. Klein. Schneider. Leider. Geringer. Weber. With a large family, my Grandparents bought many plots. A small buffer surrounds their graves, awaiting the arrival of more. There’s always room for one more, but VST and I moved away to move on. Putting a headstone there wouldn’t be a fitting period on his life.
There were so many MUSTS, SHOULDS, and NEVERS back then. A death occurred and, within three days, the minister was praying over a mourning widow, her family, and friends. A casket, front and center, held the deceased, dressed in suit and tie, or church dress. Decedent’s hair was coiffed. Makeup perfectly enhanced by the chapel’s pink lighting. The list of accepted protocol was endless, down to appropriate music. There were no video tributes or current music. Tradition. It all followed Tradition.
Privacy. That’s something that’s gone by the wayside through the years. At Loyal’s, the family sat behind a privacy curtain. Rather veil like, it provided the family a place to be separate and mourn in private. Grief is a very private ordeal for me. Proud farming stock don’t need the eyes of the community on them as the ugly cry commences. Folks were judged on how quick they were back on the tractor or weeding the garden. At least to a child of long ago, those were the takeaway lessons. Farm life is brutal. The favorite dog dies, you bury it quickly. You eat the animals you tenderly fed for months. And, when a loved one dies, you accept the truth and move on. Unless you don’t.
I delivered VST’s eulogy on July 15th, 2020. The kids each had a part in his service. His Masonic Brothers mourned the loss of their friend in a back yard VST never got to enjoy. So different are things today.
Living in a new state and town, the customs of long ago couldn’t apply even if they would’ve been a comfort. Three days after VST died, I was “Covid-Alone” frantically signing documents, packing, discarding, and crying all in the same hour. The move to Winterpast was 14 days my future. I don’t know that I even owned something appropriate for public viewing three days after VST left. It took five days for the funeral home to cremate his remains, and ten for them to return them to me. Three days? That would have never worked. For me, it took three months, and even after that much time, it was the worst day of my life.
Throngs of visitors? Covid dictated a “NO” on that. Winterpast held 40 of our closest friends and family. That many more couldn’t come due to Covid restrictions and health worries. A funeral in the back yard under morning sunshine on the high desert three months after a death? In the 1900’s, NO. Something acceptable and beautiful in the year of 2020.
Monday morning, I’m returning to Virginia City on a very sad mission. VST loved our home and new city. After so many years of farming and helping others, HE chose his new adventure and wrote the last pages of HIS story. He never laughed so much. He swelled with pride at his improvements made at the DunMovin House. He made life long friends and Masonic brothers as his days passed. Walking miles, back and forth on C Street, he stopped to talk to new and old friends alike. VST found HIS home, and home meant Nevada to him. He’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite in the Masonic portion of the segregated cemetery. Not to close to Stink-e. His headstone will read
Sir Knight Terry Lee Hurt, Psy.D.
July 15th – April 8th, (spanning 65.75 years).
Faithful Son, Father, Friend, Brother, and Husband
Don’t Worry, Be Happy
I’m just now able to publish his real name in type, after 15 months. How did widows do this in three days? While blogging, I’ve kept his name private, just for me. He remains VST from this point on.
I’ll pick the best spot available in Virginia City’s forlorn little cemetery. The Masonic portion is a place we visited more than once. He had great respect for Captain Storey, a historic and heroic leader. Maybe there’ll be a spot near him. At any rate, he’ll be surrounded by heroes and Men’s Men that lived and loved in the Wild West. Men with scars and the stories that went with them. Heroes. VST was a hero in his life, setting goals and winning at whatever he chose, including the capture of my heart. It’s there he’ll be remembered on a headstone of granite.