Learning from Lives Well Lived

I was at a small graveside funeral the other day, for the uncle of a good friend. I had met him several times over the years, but never really knew him. I knew his story, though -- at least the pivotal piece -- which is that he spent the better part of his early childhood hiding and running from the Nazis with his older brother, my friend's father.

Nobody is anywhere near as perfect as they seem to be in their eulogies, and I'm pretty sure Uncle Freddy is no exception. Still, I tend to feel inadequate at funerals (because, of course, as with everything else, it's all about me.). I wonder who will step up at my own funeral one day, attesting to my unique brand of perfection.  If only my dogs could talk.

The man standing behind me at the graveside tapped me on the shoulder. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"I don't think so," I said, certain I had never seen this elderly gentleman with an extraordinarily long salt and pepper pony tail.

"Well I'd like to."

We all cracked up, the small gaggle of outsiders standing along the back edges of the makeshift chapel. Who knew my odds would be so much better at a cemetery than on a dating site. I thanked him for the compliment, even thought about giving him my card (if I had one). But this was about Uncle Freddy.

Uncle Freddy was, to say the least, quirky. Kind of a know-it-all, though, as his oldest friend pointed out, he had a right to be.  He was voracious about reading, voracious about discovering food and drink and other glorious mysteries of life. I enjoyed hearing about the things that shaped Uncle Freddy. About how, when he was a little boy, hiding in the mountains, his only friends were his books, which explains why he so loved to read. How, as an adult, he always preferred staying home to going out. Understandable, when his formative years were spent not knowing what a home felt like. How he never asked "why me?" when he was so plagued by illness later in life. He had never expected to live past the age of six. The next 75 years were a huge windfall.

A few hours after Freddy's funeral, I found myself on an impromptu "date" (I use the term loosely) with someone four years younger than I. After an hour, he looked at me as if he had just noticed me, and he asked me why I have such nice teeth. Do I know you? Why do you have such nice teeth? It was certainly a day for weird questions. He explained that people my age tend to have rotten teeth. I laughed. Not in the kindhearted way I laughed at the funeral, but more in the why don't I ever learn kind of way.

I thought about Uncle Freddy.  Unkempt, unconventional, largely unknown Uncle Freddy, who nevertheless made an enormous impact on the people who crossed his path. Had we spent an hour together, he would have been curious about a lot of things, least among them my un-rotted teeth. And I would have come away better just to have spent that hour.

Uncle Freddy was buried in a simple pine box, and would have preferred that there be no pomp, no ceremony, no hyperbolic praise. I'm glad nobody listened to him, and I'm glad I got to hear more of his story. Worth telling, and worth hearing.