The Funeral

Several weeks before Grandma died, I received a summons for jury duty. I had received several through the years but had never had to serve. Just like the times before, I was to call each day after 5:30 p.m. and a recording would say if I needed to show up or not. I thought it would be interesting to serve on a jury, but so far every time I called the recording said, “You do not need to report. Call back after 5:30 tomorrow for further instructions.” (Or something to that effect)

Of course after Grandma died, the recording said, “Please report on Monday morning at 9:00 a.m. Failure to report will result in legal action against you.” (Or something to that effect)

I thought that if I called the nice people who worked for the court system, they would immediately take pity on my predicament and grief process and say, “Oh, I’m so sorry about the loss of your grandmother. We will excuse you from jury duty this week.” Boy was I wrong. When I called them bright and early Monday morning, they said, “That is not a valid reason for being excused from jury duty. You still need to report.”

“Is there anyone else I can talk to?”

“No.” click.

Okay, I thought, I’ll just go down there, take her obituary and certainly they will understand that I am not emotionally fit for jury duty this week. Sadly, I found out that everyone who worked at the courthouse was terminally jaded from being subjected to criminals.

Me: I was told to report for jury duty, but my grandmother died on Saturday, so may I be excused?

Them: Take a seat over there with the other jurors.

Me: But her funeral is on Wednesday. I have the obituary right here. I can’t be here on Wednesday.

Them: You can be jailed if you don’t appear. The trial starts on Wednesday morning. Go sit down.

Me: But . . .

Them: no words – just a hard glare.

I sat with the other jurors thinking that these government workers reminded me of the government workers on Beetlejuice. They were hard.

I contemplated what would happen if I didn’t show up on Wednesday. Would police come to the funeral to arrest me? How long would I have to stay in jail for failure to report for jury duty? Would I have a criminal record if I didn’t show up? All I knew was that I was not going to miss my Grandma’s funeral – no matter what happened that day.

After waiting for an hour, we were herded into a courtroom to be questioned by the prosecution and defense attorneys. All I could do was answer their questions honestly and hope they wouldn’t pick me for the jury.

First question: If you’ve ever been the victim of a violent crime raise your hand.

I raised my hand along with another woman. They asked her to tell them about it. She says, “I will be happy to tell you in the privacy of the judge’s chambers.” I was so glad they called on her first. I did not want to go into my family history in front of a courtroom full of people, so I repeated what she had said.

Second question: This case involved illegal drug use, raise your hand if you feel you can not be an objective juror. (or something like that)

I raised my hand but was not asked to expound on it. They asked several more questions most of which I could honestly raise my hand to. After about an hour of questioning, they lawyers left the room to conference or do whatever it is lawyers do at this point. They came back in and excused several prospective jurors. I think – are you kidding me – I’m still here. They then excuse the women who had been the victim of a violent crime and they excuse me. I was so relieved. When I left, I asked a clerk if I still needed to call in each day that week. She said, “No.”

It took half a day of stress at the courthouse, but I was happy to know that I could go to Grandma’s funeral without the fear of being arrested.

When the kids got home from school that day, my youngest daughter had some papers that her teacher had sent for me. Her note said, “This was a writing assignment in our reading class. Students were to choose a person, place, or thing and write a descriptive paragraph about their topic. I was saving these papers for SEPs in March, but Elizabeth’s is very touching and most appropriate to share with you now.”

Elizabeth’s paragraph: My great-grandma smells like makeup. She is old. She is 92. I love going there and she is beautiful. When I go there she says, “I love you.” She had drawn a picture of my grandmother to go with her paragraph. We had Elizabeth read this and show the picture at the funeral. Teachers are wonderful people; I was so thankful to get this now instead of waiting. When Elizabeth was a baby, she was very colicky. Grandma was one of the few people who could quiet her when she was distressed. All of my children adored their great-grandmother; all of them struggled to deal with her passing.

We didn’t know if Dad would show up at the funeral. If he did show up – would he be violent? The court sent plainclothes officers to guard us – just in case of trouble. Dad did not show up. He sent a friend to take pictures of everything. It was kind of creepy – this yucky man taking pictures of all the grandkids, but it was better than having Dad there. Still, we were all on edge.

Mom was another story. She always professed her undying love for Grandma – the woman who treated her like a daughter and took her under her wing after Mom’s mother had died, but when push came to shove, she put the polygamist cult ahead of Grandma. She said she had to go on a buying trip. She could have sent someone in her place, but she did not. Then she complained and said, “I wish I could have been there.” I said, “You could have been there.” Just as always, my sisters and I were there by ourselves without the love and care of either parent. We were burying the person I loved most in the world and neither of them could be grown up enough to be there to support us. I was glad Dad stayed away but hurt that Mom made the choice she did. We needed her that day, and she once again let us down.

Even with all the trauma and pain that surrounded Grandma’s death, the funeral was beautiful. My aunt did such a good job on planning everything. She ordered two dozen red roses for the top of the casket. She even made sure to put a Kleenex in Grandma’s sleeve – just like Grandma had always done in life. Grandma was buried next to her husband in a cemetery that overlooks the city.

Several months after Grandma’s death, my aunt was looking at the red roses she saved from the funeral and discovered that about half of them had turned a lovely shade of yellow. Yellow roses mean joy and happiness; we took this as a sign that Grandma was happy. Knowing Grandma, she isn't wasting any time in heaven. She told me once that she helped plan all the events in her little town when she was a young woman. I'm sure she is giving God and the angels a run for their money with all her activity and planning.