Hell of a day. Tuesday 7/7/2020. It sounds good to say out loud. Seven seven twenty twenty. I made my bed and made my coffee. I had to go to the bank to get quarters for laundry and be at Newton Cemetery to bury Uncle Jerry’s ashes at 1:00pm. Warm, sunny, slightly breezy. Barely any clouds, more like white wisps to decorate the blue sky.
Walking down my street I see old Joe leaning against the city issued trash barrels. I’ve lived on this street in Somerville for 12 years, but only recently started talking with Joe. I’ve always appreciated his presence. He sits on a bench on his front porch. Sometimes with his wife, sometimes alone. Always a cigar in his hand. Sometimes it's lit, sometimes it's not. Short and stout he wears a tank top and shorts, walks with a cane. I figure he’s Portuguese.
This morning we’re talking about the bank, laundry and quarters. Hot topics for me. Joe goes to the laundromat on Broadway. He has a washer and dryer in the basement of his 3 family home, but he can’t use the stairs. I’ve noticed his legs. Thick posts that are thermometer red from the ankles through the shins. He walks like he talks - slow and with a destination. I’m not that tall but, I’m feeling ashamed of my height. As we're wrapping up our small talk I offer him a hand with the trash barrels. “If you want to get your hands dirty” he says. I think of the current insane-sanitizer world and grab a barrel. “Behind the 2nd car” Joe shouts. He has a stage made out of cinder blocks built for the barrels. All of the barrels are now in their places. He motions toward the gate behind the cars and tells me to open it. A perfectly paved backyard. A patio table with an ashtray with cigars wrapped in cellophane. Potted plants everywhere. A great use of space. "You want a beer?” he asks. Of course I do. It’s a beautiful day during an endless pandemic. Backyard beers with old Joe sounds better than quarters and laundry. I look at my watch, 10:15am. Uncle Jerry will be buried in 3 hours. I have to tell Joe I can’t. He looks at me like we’re speaking a different language. “Wine?” he asks. Damnit. I tell him about Uncle Jerry and the burial. He understands. Last night the hospital called to tell him his brother was dying. 74 years old. Too many operations and he’s not going to make it.
I do my errands. Go to the cemetery. Uncle Jerry’s ashes are in a box wrapped like a gift. The perfectly gift wrapped box is on a small table with the US Navy hat he had been wearing for the last few years of his life. 2 Navy Officers in their bell-bottom whites standing behind. Prayers are said. “Taps” is played. The US Flag is folded. It is what Uncle Jerry would’ve wanted. Quick, clean and classy. Not a ‘high mass’. Half hour later we’re in his backyard eating pizza. Hell of a day. Tuesday. 7/7/2020.
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