My Father (part 4/the end)

On that Tuesday afternoon, the public visitation was held for my father. In the back of my mind, I knew and yes, hoped, there would be a good public turnout. We scheduled the visitation from 5pm to 8pm. People started showing up at 4pm, and trust me, consider it a lesson learned, if you can, show up for these things early. I and the rest of my family stood at the end of the line near the coffin for 5 hours, greeting and talking to people. It went on past 9pm. There were people there from every area of life my father was involved in, such as church, school and sports. There were people there from every decade of my father's life, if you can say that. From childhood friends to college buddies to friends, players and collegues here in town. These poeple, some of them for well over an hour, stood in line just for a chance to say goodbye. The genuine sorrow and love in their voices and manner were very touching. It was impressive to witness. I don't think I've ever been hugged so much in one day. I'm not sure what else to say. The amount of flowers we recieved was amazing. As I would say later about the whole situation, it turned out as nice as it could have, considering what the event was. So wierd thinking that my dad would have just loved to see all of those people and talk to them, but then, he was the reason they were there, and I'm sure his spirit was too.

One phrase that has stuck in my mind from this experience is that "having a reserved spot in the front row at a funeral is not all it's cracked up to be." But you do what you have to do. I've lost 3 grandparents, and I miss them a lot and I certainly felt a void when they left. I grieved for them. But without trying to lessen the impact those people had on my life, losing a parent is something even worse. I can't begin to explain how empty my life so often feels right now. But that is something I'll have to be mindful of and will comment on as I continue living. So what about the funeral itself, that was held Wednesday afternoon? Again, a great turnout and it was as nice as something like that could be. The official service is something my dad would have liked. There were eulogies from his oldest cousin, practically a brother to him, along with one from a former player who went on to teach and coach with my dad, and both were equally well-done and enjoyable. At the end, what my dad would have really enjoyed, was a good friend of his who has lead a brass band in this area, played "When the Saints go Marching In" on the trumpet for the recessional, first very slow and sad, and then the next time upbeat, like I guess you'd find in New Orleans. After that he played the high school fight song, and considering the crowd, it was a very appropriate send off.

Later on I went back into the chapel when it was empty, except for my father's casket. It's not that I was having trouble letting go, but I wanted to say one final goodbye. So strangly quiet. So wrong, so lonely, to sense that some building on the edge of town was were we all said goodbye. But our physical self is only a part of our story.

One thing about the funeral that I haven't told anyone yet is something I "saw". To describe it, it is like I saw it with my mind's eye, super-imposed upon what you could actually see with your eyes. At the end of the chapel where the minister was and where the coffin was placed, was a construction of molding on the wall, suggesting a large gate. While the service was underway, not physically but in my mind and heart, I could see those gates opening up, a great white light pouring out, and my father silhouetted against this as he stepped forward into heaven. And if anyone deserved to get into heaven, it was my dad. I don't normally get over-excited about any sort of beliefs, be they Christian or otherwise, but I do have some experiences in my past which make me firmly believe that what I saw truly was happening on some level of existance.

Some of you may know that my wife and I lost a son 6 years ago. What I likely haven't told you is that, individually, my wife and I both had dreams of our son that we consider visitations. Both of these dreams occured about one month after Charlie's death, and during a time when we were struggling very hard with our grief and trying to understand why this had happened. In my wife's case, she dreamed of her great-grandfather fishing with our son, Charlie, on a nearby river. In this dream the great-grandfather told my wife not to worry, that Charlie was with them now and that they would look after him. I myself had a dream in which I saw Charlie playing in my living room. I sat there and watched him, crying. And then Charlie turned to me and said, "Don't be sad Daddy. Those times when my memory crosses your mind are when I'm allowed to come down and visit you."

As I said, when it comes to faith, I don't know what to belief half of the time, I take a little bit from everything out there and assemble it into something in my mind that makes sense to me. But in these dreams I sense an absolute truth, and it has greatly calmed me over the years. When the thought of Charlie does cross my mind, I often will just say a little "Hey Charlie" in my mind, and it is a very peaceful feeling. This is one of the few truths and positives I can find in death. I have yet to have a dream of my father. In fact, I very rarely remember my dreams at all, but I know that sometime soon he will visit me. Not only do I take this on faith, but also because my wife had a dream about my dad this weekend. He was dressed in black, gave my wife a big hug and told here that "everything is going to be OK". Now I don't know if he was talking about life, our grief, or the fact that my wife is currently 5 months pregnant (we lost Charlie when she was 8 months along) and we are worried we'll have to go through the same heartbreak again. But not everything is in our hands, and I do have faith in the spirit of people, be they living amongst us or watching over us. So thanks for visiting Tricia, Dad, I know she took great comfort in that.

As far as the events of this week, I just want to add on final story that happened the next day, on Thursday. I thought it would be appropriate to stop by the place where my dad would have coffee every morning with "the old dudes" (my wife's description). And many of these gentlemen are guys I've known all of my life, and I enjoyed talking with them, as well as representing my dad. I'll likely go back again some day when I have the day off, maybe a Friday. I made it through 2 hours of hanging out with these guys, not shedding a tear, just visiting and reminiscing. But as I turned to leave, one of the most-powerful moments of the whole week took place. There is a young man who works there, I believe he's autistic, and he cleans the tables. I was wearing my "Mayo Spartan Football" jacket, one that says "Coach Pucci" on the right breast. As I was leaving, this man came up to me, pointed at the "Coach Pucci" stitching, and gave me a quizical look. "Yes," I said, "he was my father." This man extended his hand to shake mine, and as I took it, he collapsed into my arms and started crying. Oh my god, I lost it too. Later on, the guys at the coffee table said it was one of the nicest things they'd ever seen. But what this illustrates is the great character my father had. He treated everyone, and I seriously mean everyone, with the greatest of respect and dignity. It didn't matter what your status was in life, my father always had a smile and kind word for everyone. I still get choked up about this story. I am unbelievably proud of who my father was, and I am very inspired to live up to his fine example.

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This concludes my blogging about the week I lost my father. My deep thanks to those of you who have read every word. I guess I'll write about more "normal" things now. But I want to tell you all this: your success in life, your true legacy, the greatest accomplishment you can ever do, is to be a good person and do your best to take care of your family and your friends. Life is too short to not be a good person for others. It doesn't matter how many songs you write, how many CDs you release, how much money you make, how many cars you own, or anything like that. Sure, enjoy your interests and have fun participating in them. But what people will remember about you is your smile, the tone of your voice, and if you were someone who cared for and loved others. Be a good person and a good mentor. Shine brightly with a joy and love of spirit.

Like my father, Ralph Pucci.

With love,
Tony