A year ago Thursday, we laid my wife’s ashes to rest at Mount Olivet Cemetery in Janesville, Wisconsin. Cheryl died at age 77, a decade-long battle with dementia erasing her every memory. I hope I never forget the details of March 6, 2024.
I awoke at 5:15 a.m., and Mom, my son Josh, and I made it to the church by 10. Some of our out-of-town relatives had arrived. That afforded time to visit before Aaron Kerr of Schneider Funeral Directors started instructing me about details of the proceedings. Stressing the need to start promptly because church staffers had other commitments, he said, “The plane has to land on time.”
When the visitation began, I stood close to Cheryl’s urn, with her son Eric on my right, and younger son Adam standing farther away. I’d seen no indication of brotherly love.
I was glad to see my high school buddy Dave and his wife, Kathy. Spotting the urn, she asked if we’d preplanned the funeral.
“Yes.”
She looked at Dave. “That makes me think I need to start thinking about planning yours.”
Not missing a beat, Dave responded, “Well, I’ve already got yours planned.”
I laughed too loud to be appropriate in a church full of mourners.
Many people asked how I was doing. I told them that Cheryl not living with Molly and me the previous thirteen months would help make this transition easier because it wasn’t like the house was suddenly empty; it had been empty all those months.
Many former Janesville Gazette colleagues were among those greeting me, and the line seemed long and my time short. I kept them moving by saying, “The plane has to land on time.”
There was no clock on the wall, and it seemed rude to check my cellphone. In reality, I nudged late-comers along too quickly, and we wrapped up with fifteen minutes to spare. At least I had time to use the men’s room before the service.
Neighbors Pam and John arrived at the last minute, as did our friend Sarah, who circled to the back. When I went to hug her, Sarah started tearing up, and I said, “Don’t do that; you’ll get me started.”
I didn’t shed tears during the visitation the previous evening, nor had I done so thus far that day.
Adam sat to my left, and my mom took the far end of the first pew. Eric sat behind me.
During his homily, Father Rick Heileman talked to me several times, and I nodded each time. Unfortunately, as I feared, he spoke in hushed, dramatic tones, and those seated in back struggled to hear him.
Next to her urn stood a 4-by-6-inch framed photo of Cheryl on our lone hot-air balloon ride. It was as if Cheryl’s beautiful brown eyes locked on mine whenever I looked at it. I had to not look too often lest I tear up.
As Kellie Pearson beautifully sang “On Eagles Wings,” Aaron approached to say he’d carry Cheryl’s urn out and I should follow. It seemed odd. Why wouldn’t I be carrying it?
Josh rode with me as I pulled my Honda behind the hearse. Adam and our two grandkids, in his bright blue Charger, slid in behind us. With emergency flashers, our procession crawled across town toward Mount Olivet Cemetery. On Memorial Drive, impatient motorists could pass us. However, some drivers coming toward us pulled over in a show of respectful courtesy seldom seen these days.
It was a beautiful day for a burial given early March in Wisconsin. I’ve attended too many in nasty weather.
On a green-clad pedestal in front of the urn and its hole were three chairs with green cloth liners. I took the middle seat, keeping the two brothers—who hadn’t spoken, as far as I knew—separated. Father Heileman sprinkled holy water, then passed me the rest of the plastic bottle.
Hearing a sniffle to my right, I turned and saw tears streaking down Eric’s face. They surprised me, given his estrangements from his mom, whom he often called “Cheryl.”
After the short service, a man steered a green Gator vehicle down the hill, backed in with a load of dirt, placed the urn in the hole, then spaded dirt atop it.
For the luncheon at the nearby Elks Club, relatives poured in around Mom at one table, so I sat with good friends—Jim and Bernice, Gen and John, and Skippy.
Father Heileman didn’t join us for the meal, and the day’s only regret was that I didn’t think to lead us in prayer before ushering tables toward the food once it was ready.
I was delighted to see most of my high school buddies stay for the meal. I chuckled when two of them, Dave and Mike, asked to borrow my cellphone so they could show the video I shot the previous September of Dave catching a trophy northern that Mike netted near Pembine.
Seeing so many cars at the cemetery, I feared we might run out of food. As it worked out, we had just enough, and I got compliments about how good it tasted.
Eric had been seated at an adjacent table, and when we got up at the same time, I mentioned his tears at the cemetery.
“Yes, I get emotional,” he said, and again thanked me for arranging the day and taking good care of his mom. We hugged, and I thought we should someday get together and talk.
Rather than keep the flower arrangements and plants from the service, I asked supportive people to take them home. The first one was our friend Barb, who chose the plant basket I bought at K&W Greenery—Cheryl’s favorite store—to accent the urn.
When I pointed that out, Barb said, “Oh, did you not want me to take this one?”
“No, not at all. I told you to take the one you wanted, and if that’s the one you like best, that’s the one I want you to have.”
Several people told me it was a lovely service. I suggested that, given Chery’s slow decline, I had time to plan it. I was glad, too, that a few years earlier, at our financial advisor’s suggestion and despite Cheryl’s confusion, we’d purchased a cemetery plot, a monument, and urns, and set aside funeral trusts in CDs.
Cheryl’s relatives—who all called Cheryl “Cherrie”—assembled for group photos and asked me to join one with her siblings and their spouses.
I took time to visit with them and with my friends. Before Cheryl’s nephew Brian, and his wife, Lisa, departed, Lisa came to talk.
“Cherrie was always my favorite of Brian’s aunts,” Lisa said. “She was always kind to me and fun to be around, always willing to have a glass of wine.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate you saying that.”
At 4 p.m., Cheryl’s sister Candy and husband Larry helped me haul out the photo boards, Cheryl’s bowling trophies, and other memorabilia. After tipping our server, I headed home.
Back at the house, Mom expressed surprise that I didn’t keep a plant for myself.
“I wanted those who’d been so supportive to have them,” I said. “I wanted to show my appreciation. I ran out of plants and flowers before I ran out of people I’d liked to have given them to.
“Besides,” I added, “I’d probably just kill the plants in time anyway.”
Rather than go out to eat, we dove into leftover barbecue that Candy had prepared. Besides, it was just the four of us—Mom, my sister Karen, Josh, and me. Adam and the kids headed home to Illinois rather than spend a second night at a hotel.
After eating, I started opening memorial cards. They contained $2,400, putting me well on the way to the planned $1,000 I wound up donating to each place—Rotary Botanical Gardens, the Rock County Historical Society, and Agrace Hospice, where Cheryl died eight days earlier.
Brooke, the nurse who visited Cheryl weekly for eight months, was the only person from Agrace to show up for either the visitation or service. Cheryl lived thirteen months at Huntington Place, which sent a plant, though no one from Huntington came to pay their respects.
I received an uplifting message from Cheryl’s favorite cousin, Vicki. “What a wonderful tribute to Cherrie! It was nice to see old friends, relatives we haven’t seen for a while, and talk about old times. She is so proud of you, I am sure!”
A note from Doug, an acquaintance, touched me. “I will always remember Cheryl as the cutest little girl in my St. William’s class. She had such dark, dancing eyes, and all the girls were jealous of her. I’m sorry she had to leave us so soon.”
The message Mom wrote in her card brought tears to my eyes. “She will be missed! Bless her heart, she was a fighter to the end. I loved her, Greg, and thanks for bringing her into the family. Love you, Greg.”