Rush Hour in the North Woods
Five days ago, we learned of the death of Marjorie’s cousin,
a 76-year-old man, Jerry Stanton, who was one of five children that Marjorie grew
up with as a child in Pontiac, Mi. We decided to attend Jerry’s funeral. The
funeral was to be held in the Catholic Church in Clarkston, Michigan, a
three-hour drive for us. We decided on an early morning trip to Clarkston – we
calculated that we should leave at 7:00 AM or thereabouts to assure that we
would arrive at the funeral home in time to visit and offer our condolences to
the remaining family members.
Thereabouts was as early as we could manage. I looked at the
clock as we left the garage – it was 7:22 AM—an early start for us retired
old-timers. In fact, the sun was just beginning to rise as we turned onto our
version of a main highway heading southeast for the 12-mile-trip toward I 75. The
large orange orb had just begun its overhead travel, hitting us dead square in
the eyes as it creeped above the horizon. Although we were blinded by the
initial impact of the light beam, we managed to adjust the sun visor and don
our sunglasses, ignoring the beautiful vista that the sun illuminated. I mostly
kept the car in the right lane as we barreled along the highway during morning rush
hour.
You should understand that rush hour in the north woods is
likely different than you think. I counted the number of cars on the road
between our house and the metropolis of St. Helen. There were four. Counting me
as one of the four.
Instead of a mélange of cars, during our rush hour we
normally have a mixed bag of critters venturing from the woods to the highway. On
our early morning trip, there were way more deer getting in my lane than cars,
an odd skunk or two, one opossum (dead, of course) and a flock of turkeys
following two mama birds. The critters along the road seem to think that 7:30
AM is the appropriate time to investigate their surroundings in search of food,
sex, or whatever else motivates the colorful wildlife who have no idea about
traffic patterns, rules of the road, or any other safety related behaviors.
There is nothing for it but for drivers like me to watch the sides of the road
instead of the road itself. This often results in driving into potholes, and/or
forgetting about adjacent driveways where other drivers may be anxiously
waiting for their turn to gain entrance to the public road and dodge the
prevalent wildlife.
We made it to St. Helen and I-75 safely where we began the
long ride to Clarkston and St. Dan’s Catholic Church where stood friends and
family and the surprises that awaited us. The first surprise was how all the
mourners were dressed: without exception the men wore suits and ties while the
ladies wore similar appropriate clothing. Unlike practices I have seen in the
North Woods, there were no shorts, T shirts, or casual wear within the church
except for the deceased Jerry. Jerry was wearing a Tigers uniform shirt. In his right hand was
a baseball that had been signed by Al Kaline. Jerry was a real fan and his
widow assured that he would be prepared to follow that practice going forward.
I appreciated the nice touch that the uniform and baseball provided.
After a dignified funeral service presided over by St. Dan’s
Priest, the large group of mourners formed a 50-car cortege for the 2-mile trip
to the cemetery where a second service was held before the casket was lowered
into the ground. Immediately thereafter we joined in a lunch with the family
before heading home where we arrived in the early evening. The day-long
experience seemed a fitting tribute for a family man from a large family that
everyone seemed to like given the large crowd for his funeral.
