The Box

It was June 8, 1967, just days before my 12^th birthday. There I sat peering between the heads of people sitting in the pews; trying so desperately to see what was lying in the front of the room. It was the first time I had been to a funeral. I had no idea what to expect; I had never experienced death before; at least not that I could remember. My grandpa ‘Pone’ had passed away just three days before. I, being the first grandchild, had tagged him with the name ‘Pone’. As it has been explained to me, I could not say grandpa so, being the creative creature that I am, I came up with the name Pone. My grandpa was so proud to sport his new name and eventually everyone knew him as ‘Pone’.

It was such a sad day for me. Somehow I knew I would never see my Pone after that day. All the plans we had made together had been ruined. My grandpa and I had been so very close; we were true buddies. Not only was I the first grandchild, but the only one he had shared with my grandmother. She had died a premature death in 1956, at the age of 43; I was just days shy of being 18 months old. After her death I would go stay with my grandpa Pone on occasions. Each time I did we would always go across the street to the little wooden framed grocery store, and buy a special meal. It was my most favorite meal in the world!  Together we would eat ‘little fishes’, (better know to you as sardines) and drink Strawberry soda’s. That was the cat’s meow to me; I loved it. To me there was nothing more special than those times with Pone.

As time went on, my grandpa Pone moved in with us. Shortly after that, he went to work as a custodian at Horace Mann Junior High School, which was only a couple of miles from where we lived. He did such an outstanding job and was quickly promoted to head custodian. Just months before his death he had moved into the small silver trailer that sat on the school campus. I would say it was about an 8 foot by 20 foot trailer and it sat at the corner entrance where the school buses traveled for loading and unloading students. I was all set to attend this same junior high school the following school year, which was only three months away. I was so excited! But the excitement was more than just attending junior high school, although that was pretty cool; it was because my Pone and I had concocted a plan. The plan was that I would stay with him every day after school in that little silver trailer that I thought was so cool. And once my homework was complete I would be able to help him clean the school. I had especially looked forward to going into the boys’ restrooms. Pone had taken me in there once during one of his cleaning tasks and I was totally amazed at those contraptions called a urinal. I had never seen nor heard of such a thing and I was sure curious how they worked. I wondered how they kept from flooding the floors when they flushed; but I had not yet burdened Pone with such a trivial question. I was saving that up for a special moment in time. However, now everything had changed with the blink of an eye and my grandpa Pone would not be able to satisfy my curious little mind. Nor would we be able to eat ‘little fishes’ and drink Strawberry soda’s together again. Instead, there he laid in a powder blue long box they called a casket. I looked to the front of the room, with my neck stretched as much as possible, shifting back and forth trying to see around all the heads in front of me. I could barely see the long box and my grandpa Pone’s nose protruding just above the edge. As I sat there for what seemed like hours, I waited anxiously for my Pone to sit up and ask the question, “What’s everybody starring at me for?”

As I sat there, so many thoughts and questions were running through my young mind, but I was unable to ask anyone. My mother, devastated at the loss of her father, had immediately sent my three brothers and me to a distant relative’s house. The relatives took us to the funeral and sat us way back in the last pews of the room. During that time I had no idea where my parents were and I kept wondering when they were going to show up. Later I found out, they, along with other close relatives, were sitting in another room called ‘the family room’. So there I was without my parents, sitting and waiting for my grandpa Pone to rise up out of that powder blue box.  But much to my disappointment, he never sat up and I never saw him again after that day.

Immediately following the funeral I began to have night mares every night. And, like clockwork, my mother would come into my room to try and console me telling me everything was going to be all right. She would say Pone is in heaven with Jesus. At the same time I in turn tried to desperately explain to her how I knew Pone wanted to get up out of the box; he was suffocating and could not breathe. I just knew without a doubt I was right.

Finally, after many months of the dreaded nightly event, my night mares subsided and I realized that death was a final thing and no one could change it. But somehow I still had problems with the box, known to all as a casket.

Today as I look back at this whole event I wonder if my grandpa Pone’s funeral was what caused me to be claustrophobic. To this very day I cannot witness a casket being closed in front of me. That became apparent to me later in years at my paternal grandmother’s funeral in 1975. Although I was 20 years old at the time, when they closed the casket  I immediately began to panic and thought, like my Pone, they had shut her in that box and she was unable to breathe. They were suffocating her. How would she be able to get up out of that box?  Maybe, just maybe, I was able to see the vision that I had seen so many years earlier in hopes that she too would sit up. The lid had been shut right before my eyes and I could not even see the smallest glimpse of her. And like my grandpa Pone, I also knew from that moment on I would never see her again.

I know this may sound like a childish thing to most people but to me it is real. And it is an uncomfortable situation that I always contend with during a death. I do know the dead can not breathe and are not being suffocated; but I also know claustrophobia is real, finality is real, death is real, and that dreaded box is real.

This article is dedicated to: My Grandpa Pone – Amos Venson Turner a/k/a “Buddy” (Dec 23, 1908 – June 5, 1967)

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to writie our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

Life Stories