This funeral was like many of the rest I have attended (which is probably too few compared to most folks, since I have skipped some I should have attended).

Held in the chapel of the local mortuary. A place where you sign the guest book as you enter, just like at a wedding. When younger I really wondered about the purpose of those books. Do brides and family really go back and read those names, to remind themselves who was there? Perhaps. But I have never read the book from our wedding.

But after the birth of our first son, and the beginning of my father's and my interest in our family history, I have found such signatory books to be of great value and interest. Especially with the old Quaker records, since so many families and neighbors bred and interbred with each other. Knowing who was present at these life events helps define family lines, but it also makes the events more human. A wedding or a funeral is no longer just a date and place to enter into a database. It is a brief picture back in time.

So now, I wonder, in the distant future will someone look at a digitized record of my signature, and try to figure out who I was, and why I was there? Will our events and comings and goings be so well recorded that a simple query will link my life to hers?

Is it a bad thing when the funeral director/coroner knows you by your first name?

You enter the chapel from the right side. The pews are arranged in two long rows with an aisle in between, with two extra rows on the left side, reserved for family and close friends. Ruth's turquoise coffin was on a bier up front, framed with large flower displays, another large bouquet with the ribbon "Dear Wife" on top. Her photograph stood on a stand to her left.

The casket was closed.

A friend got my attention as I entered, and shifted over to make room for me beside her along the aisle. This left two seats available in the entire room. The couple entering in front of me split up, the woman to one side, the husband taking the space by my friend.

I walked past to the back. And heard mutterings behind me. The husband soon tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to the seat he had vacated by my friend. I quietly protested, indicating he should sit across from his wife, but he insisted. As I moved forward, another man sat down in the vacant spot. And also left after a brief conversation with my friend.

Talk about embarassing. I would rather stand discretely along the back wall for an hour than have a reserved seat at a funeral. With most the people watching, I moved forward and sat.

Listened to the music as I stared at the stained glass window behind the coffin. A simple, non-denominational pattern, with four diamonds of red in the middle that did not quite make a christian cross. Inoffensive to anybody. It occurred to me this entire building had been designed and laid out in order to get that window on a south wall. To get that perfect glow in the early afternoon.

I know I should have been thinking about the life of the woman whose body lay before that window, but my mind kept wandering to scenes and snippets from Six Feet Under. About all the shuffling and activity and preparations that must have occurred for this brief ceremony.

The music was piped in from the hidden alcove. Actually pretty pleasant instrumentals, almost celtic. Maybe I should ask Bill what he uses. You could hear the click as someone turned it off.

After a brief silence, a man in a mild western shirt stood up, went up front to retrieve his guitar from behind some flowers, and played and sang The Green, Green Grass of Home."

The man seated up front, who never introduced himself, gave a few readings from the Bible, one the psalm about a time and purpose for everything. Then another solo from the singing cowboy. Then the eulogy from the minister or whatever he is up front.

Now, I have been to Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, Episcopalian, Baptist and nondenominational christian funerals, and the religious leaders running the ceremonies have always introduced themselves, and welcomed the guests. Not this guy.

Bothered me.

Bothers me more, now.

His eulogy sounded like it came from a template. He even slipped up and used "he" at one point, instead of "she." He hit the points of her life, yes, but it didn't sound like he knew her.

Not that I did. She was always in the background. Bringing fresh coffee or tea, depending upon the time or season of my visit. Offering home baked cake or pie. Clearing the table and doing dishes as we menfolk talked. Almost never offering a word.

But this woman ran the household of a ranch forty-some miles from civilization, five miles from pavement. She raised three daughters and a son. She tended the gardens that fed her family. She was the main caregiver for her mother-in-law when that woman could no longer care for herself.

She maintained long family traditions. Domestic skills that are not necessarily appreciated in this modern day. Skills in cooking and quilting.

She passed these skills on to the next generation or two. Not just her own children, but those of the community, through her volunteer work with 4-H. She helped them display and develop those skills at the county fairs.

Most of these things were mentioned, but it was as if this man was trying to find something significant to say.

As if he himself did not appreciate the value of what she did.

But perhaps this was just simply the formality the family preferred. Perhaps she herself would want this formal dignity. I do not know.

He seated himself, and a light click was soon followed by the piped music again. They pulled the curtain back from the anteroom up front on the right, revealing the immediate family. Perhaps some of them needed the privacy, wanted the dignity of grieving in private. But this was the first time I'd seen that room used.

Then they respectfully opened the coffin, allowing the guests one last opportunity to see their loved one. They emptied us out from the back, one row at a time. Only a few went up past the casket. The family was standing in the alcove, and no one went forward to speak to them.

I saw my friend standing there with his wife and daughter, and his eyes met mine. We exchanged the briefest, subtle nods of our heads, acknowledging each other, and then I moved on and he turned his gaze to others behind me. I was surprised to see his wife so obviously pregnant. One of my wardens tells me her due date is Valentine's day.

Another child will grow up never knowing one of their grandparents. A common enough occurence, but it will be a missing gap in their life that I share.