At the end of a long week of waiting, of hospice, of not knowing but knowing, my father-in-law died last week and my mother-in-law asked me to write the obituary. Really, what she wanted was for me to type something that she had written. That was fine - I think most obituaries are written in silly, stilted language and I wouldn't have written at all what Jack's very traditional mother would have wanted. As it is, she got a neatly typed digital version of exactly what she wrote by hand (with a very few choppy sentences combined). It was traditional and appropriate and perfectly fine.
When I think of obituaries, I shudder. Such odd phrases abound, things like "wife ____ of the home" . . . where would she be if not of the home? Do husbands keep their wives under rocks? Stashed away in some remote place just to be trotted out in times of need? Or maybe it means that she is still at home and not in a nursing facility. In that case, the phrase is forgiven. I hope someone has the sense to not write that I am "of the home" when Jack dies. Phrases like "she loved spending time with family" or "he enjoyed hunting" just seem to gloss over what must have been such a full life. "He was dedicated family man" is so hollow in comparison to the man that must have read bed time stories and helped his child catch tadpoles. I suppose I just shudder to think of a whole life summed up in a few lines.
I also never get a sense of who that person really was. I think if an obituary is going to be written and say more than I died, then I want it to be honest. I want people to pause, to consider, and then to say, "Why yes, that was Sarah for sure." Thinking about what I would have said about Harold would not have given us a very proper (for public consumption at least) write up in the local paper, but I have been thinking about it none the less. It goes something like this . . .
Harold Rucker was crotchety, but he had lived long enough to earn that right, his political views reflecting his age. Harold was narrow minded when it came to any race or religion or political affiliation other than his own, and his comments to others sometimes made me want to crawl under the floor and hide. He was prickly. Just plain prickly for a man that I never heard curse. As crotchety as he could be, if he liked you, he was loyal and generous to a fault.
Despite this prickly nature, he knew everyone under the sun. He was gregarious and never met a stranger wherever he went. At home, he never failed to tell me I looked nice (if I actually did) or act pleased to see me on my daily visits. He would act like he hadn't seen in me weeks and was sorely missing my company when really we had argued about politics just the day before. Harold Rucker could dole out scathing criticism of everyone from the president to his own children, but he also could be lavish in praise. He loved a good cookie or pie - I once heard a several minute rhapsody over the snickerdoodles a friend made for him. He admired hard work probably more than anything else - he loved to tell about how hard Mary Jahn works and how hard his uncle the tailor worked. He despised anyone being lazy or mooching off the system, but he also had some compassion for people who deserved it, especially kids who didn't have parents to help them.
In the last years I got to know him, what Harold seemed to enjoy most was a good drink and telling a good story. It didn't matter if it happened eighty years ago, Harold could tell a story like it happened yesterday. He was so firmly rooted in his past on the farm where his father grew tomatoes and his mother canned peaches; his narratives relived a lot of his days on the farm. One of his favorite stories to tell was about the time he went to Paris for a few days and bought a car because it was cheaper than a taxi leaving it unlocked and running at the airport when he left. He told tales about flying to Russia and his children and grandchildren - I think he was equally proud of all of them (the flying and the family). Stories about Tony and his escapades as a child and teenager were frequently retold along with accounts of what felt like every bakery job he ever did.
Harold was a teaser - if you couldn't take it, you weren't going to get along well at all. Brook could take it and dish it back, so they got along famously. Other people could get their feelings hurt because he didn't handle people gently. You just learned to fight back. Harold didn't really respect people who didn't have common sense - either he didn't pay attention to them or his teasing could get almost mean. I think we got along because I let him be cranky when he was ill, but I could stand up for myself at the same time.
Harold was dismissive of his intelligence, but he had a brilliant mind. He retold every bad joke he ever heard, could recite poems from his youth that were pages long, and could repair or re-engineer nearly anything. Even when he was old and sick, his children would still ask him how to go about solving mechanical problems. I hope Isabella's inheritance is his analytical engineer's brain and his generosity.
I hated to see him sick and hurting. I fretted when wasn't himself. And now, well now, I will miss him.
