Uncle Howard's Ashes

Reverend Joshua Dettlemire, a sizable man of the cloth, entered the sanctuary after the eleventh chime of the church bells. “Oh my,” Ginny leaned and whispered into the ear of her sister, Tessa, “the good reverend has put on a few pounds.” He appeared exceptionally stout in his long black cassock and crimson stole draped about his neck. Maneuvering his girth with a wide side-to-side sway allowed the reverend to regain his balance as he hesitated between each step. He crossed precariously in front of the altar, slowly moving toward the lily-ladened communion table on which Howard Cherrie’s picture and pewter urn rested. Ginny, the eldest of his two surviving nieces, winced as she sized up Rev. Dettlemire and the limited space between the table and lectern. He neared Howard’s family then solemnly paused, as pastors do on such occasions, to nod sympathetically to Ginny and her sister Tessa seated in the front pew. Bidding them his condolences, he turned and continued his slog to the pulpit. Unfortunately, mid-sway, the scuffed toe of his black wingtip slipped out from under his robe and caught a leg of the table. The display atop it began to wobble. With his Bible tightly gripped under his right arm, Rev. Dettlemire reached out with his left hand just in time to valiantly catch Uncle Howard’s framed, smiling face before it crashed to the floor. The vase of beautifully arranged lilies, however, toppled and spilled onto the worn maroon carpet. With a loud grunt he bent over, straining to retrieve a handful of unbroken blooms, a small clump of greenery and the lead glass vase that landed on the carpet with a thump. With a second grunt he righted himself and returned what was left of the mangled floral arrangement into the vase and back to the table where it belonged. Being so consumed with righting the flowers, Rev. Dettlemire was oblivious of the collective gasp of bereaved funeral attendees as the urn, Uncle Howard’s urn, wobbled then toppled and began to roll along the front edge of the oak table. Wendy Stanford of Stanford Funeral Home and Crematorium saw the inevitable about to happen and sprinted up the center aisle in her black heels and pencil skirt. Beautifully poised, she gracefully dove past the front pews just seconds too late. Uncle Howard’s urn dropped to the floor and rolled toward Ginny and Tessa who lifted their feet, allowing it to settle directly beneath them, lodging against Tessa’s Prada shoulder bag. Ms. Stafford managed to army-crawl under the sisters’ to retrieve the urn. The room of mourners collectively released their gasp as Ms. Stanford rose awkwardly, tugged her skirt back to the appropriate length and returned the dearly departed, Howard Cherrie, to his place of honor. “Thank the good Lord for Ms. Stafford. I wasn’t about to touch that thing,” Tessa hissed through clenched teeth. Rev. Dettlemire paused momentarily to catch his breath before turning to the congregation, “Welcome, dear friends, to the sendoff of Howard Cherrie, a man of faith, and a leader of our community. He is on to eternity with his Maker,” his voice as big as his body boomed and echoed through the sanctuary. A robust “Amen,” was offered at the end of the service followed up with an invitation for the mourners to reconvene the gathering at Cherrie’s Ice Cream Factory and Restaurant. Ginny opened her eyes and dabbed a tissue to her dripping nose. Surrounded by the plethora of blooms and potted plants on the altar, all lovely offerings to Uncle Howard’s remembrance, her allergies kicked into high gear and she sneezed. Tessa politely hugged her sister, “Larry and I will meet you at the restaurant. Xavier, Judith and the baby will ride with us. I hope you can get there in plenty of time to get a parking space. I’d hate to see you walk too far in those shoes.” She took her husband’s arm and beckoned her magazine-model son and his very pregnant wife to follow her. Their two-year old, Xavion, dragged behind until Tessa leaned down and told him they were all headed for ice cream. “Oh-tay, Gammy,” the child patted her head sweetly. Tessa quickly righted herself out of his reach, smoothing her French twist with her fingertips until she was sure every hair was in place. “I certainly hope it is gluten-free, lactose-free and sugar-free,” declared big-as-a-barn Judith on her way out the church doors. Hillman Jarbowski, Uncle Howard’s attorney and partner in the firm Jarbowski, Jarbowski and Cline, took Ginny by the arm and walked her to her Jeep Wrangler. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Cherrie. Your uncle was quite a character and will truly be missed. He spoke quite highly of you and loved you. He loved both you and Tessa very much.” “Thank you for your kindness to him, Mr. Jarbowski. And please, just call me Ginny.” “Then Ginny, you must call me Hillman, and don’t forget, tomorrow is the reading of your uncle’s will. He made it quite short and to the point. I’ll see you, Tessa and Larry in my office at 9:00 am.” He opened her car door and she slid into the driver’s seat. Ginny rolled the window down and waved goodbye but Wendy Stanford began clicking across the blacktop in her direction. “Ms. Cerrie, wait!” “Ginny, you forgot your uncle,” Wendy panted as she arrived at the window. “I didn’t know I was supposed to take him with me.” “Well, someone has to take him. He is no longer the responsibility of Stanford Funeral Home.” Hillman pulled up to the ladies in his Escalade. “Is there a problem?” “Ms. Cherrie was leaving without her uncle. He is no longer under my care, I can’t take him back to the funeral home,” huffed Wendy still winded. “No problem, I’ll take him for the night.” Hillman smiled, “He’ll need to be in my office when we read his will tomorrow.”