AAs I drive down the main street of my hometown in Connecticut—the sidewalks still wet from a recent storm—I notice that the flag outside the firehouse is flying at half-mast in honor of my father, who, at 102, was the oldest member of the volunteer fire department.
I also notice that the church where we wanted to hold the memorial service for my father is getting a new roof.
“Yes, it’s closed,” my brother says shortly after I arrive from the airport.
“So we can’t do it there?” I say.
“There are regular church services in the park,” he says, “so we could do that, but if the weather is bad we have nowhere to go.”
The next morning, my brother and I drive to his office, one of the few understaffed light manufacturing plants that was once a major engineering company. I sit at an empty desk and pretend to write my eulogy while my brother emails people about venues.
“The Moose Room is available from 5 p.m. on Monday,” he says.
The Moose Room is a community room that shares a courtyard with the local library and takes its name from the large stuffed moose head that hangs above its fireplace.
“Is that the earliest we can get in there?” I ask.
“They play Mahjong to 3,” he says.
Another complication: When my mother died in 1998, we quickly purchased a double plot with a single headstone, leaving room for my father’s name. But my father had already been cremated. The cemetery allows urns to be placed on coffins, so we may have a whole extra plot.
“I believe we have already agreed to put it on her grave,” my sister writes to me, referring to an earlier conversation. “Can we confirm this?”
Also, Monday is too early for the funeral as it turns out that as an Army veteran my father is entitled to certain military honors that take time to arrange. My sisters, who are handling the funeral home paperwork, would prefer Tuesday.
“There are no seats available in the Moose Room on Tuesday,” my brother writes.
After a dozen more text messages are exchanged, the decision is made: Moose Room on Monday, right after Mahjong, followed by the funeral with soldiers on Tuesday morning.
“Now that we have a date,” my sister-in-law writes, “should I contact the caterer Joan Caviola hired for her father?”
In the afternoon I call my wife to put her in the picture.
“Do you remember the party my mother organized for us right after our wedding when we came back here for Christmas?”
“Vague,” she says.
“Well, that was the moose room.”
“Are you sad?” she asks. “Are you sitting in the house and staring at the four walls?”
“Actually, I’m at the beach,” I say.
“Oh,” she says.
“I’m sad, but it’s high tide,” I say. My father swam at this beach every summer for decades. He was an hour late for his own 95th birthday party because he didn’t want to miss the high tide. He, more than anyone else, would understand.
When I hang up, I see my sister-in-law, two deck chairs away, talking to Joan Caviola, a local dog owner with legendary directness, about her recommended caterer. My sister-in-law introduces us to each other.
“Yeah, hello,” Joan says. “Anyway, have you made dessert yet?”
“I didn’t,” says my sister-in-law.
“Exactly,” says Joan. “This isn’t a damn birthday party.”
“And we can still change our minds,” says my sister-in-law.
“Hey!” says Joan, turning to me. “How long have you been living in England?”
“About 30 years,” I say.
“You damn well sound like that!”
One final complication: My sister found an old wooden box containing religious paraphernalia that my father’s father once used to administer the last rites when a Catholic priest was not around. She believes the box would be a good place to store my father’s ashes.
“Maybe,” I say. “But it’s too beautiful to bury,” I say.
“Do you want it?” she says.
“To be honest, I find it a little creepy,” I say.
“I mean, we would take that stuff out first,” she says.
“Then it’s just a box, right?” I say. “A box with a cross on it.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Will the ashes fit in there,” I ask, “without us having to, er, redistribute them?” My sister takes the square ash can from the shelf and demonstrates that it fits lying down.
“So, what do you think?” she says.
“I don’t even know why I pretend to have an opinion,” I say, looking at my phone and seeing that it’s only Friday.
