graeme mitchell

My Grandpa, Jack, died. It was my father’s father. Here I want to share - and, please, excuse this father - my father’s rebuttal given at the service:

Eulogy I gave at Grandpa’s funeral:I did not inherit my father’s propensity for public speaking.

Eulogies enumerate the positive. In Jack’s case humor, tenacity, good memory,
and the wise choice to marry a talented, supportive wife. Edith. Mitchell traits.

I have been asked to give the rebuttal to the eulogy. What might Jack say in
response, if he could.

He might start with: I have come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
(Shakespeare, Julius Caesar 3,2).

Ate too much. Drank too much. Smoked too much. Worked too hard.
Obstinate. Stubborn. Didn’t listen. Didn’t talk too much - why bother when you
are right? All Mitchell traits.

Well, with apologies to Bob Marley (not the singer) and Charles Dickens

If you are virtuous and in need you may be visited by three specters
The ghost of Jack o’Lantern Mitchell past,
the ghost of Jack o’Mitchell Lantern present
and the ghost of Jack Mitchell future.

To reflect upon my past, your past and your future.
Learn what you will, and act as you must (should).

For all others I may simply come back to haunt you permanently.
~
God has Jack traits. Quiet. Doesn’t say much and you don’t know if he is
listening

And as we all know Jack seemed to have God like qualities
Now he has matriculated to the next form. one wonders what he and the All
knowing teacher will discuss. And who will listen to whom…

When I read this pride and love swelled my stomach and poured warmth into my chest and throat. When I read it I thought of the saying that you aren’t grown up until your parents pass. When I read it I thought of joking with my father, asking if I could steal it…if he’d mind if I used it at his…but then I wondered if he’s more sensitive than I understand.

I talked with my sister on the phone, her in her house that’s in a town so alone on the map that it is defined by what is not there (”we don’t even have a Starbucks,” she says), and I said, I don’t know if Dad believes in God, or heaven, or…isn’t that something I should know by now? She replied that she’d asked him once and he’d said __…then she added, that was many years ago…b/c minds certainly change in regards such as these don’t they? I was nonetheless impressed she’d the nerve to have asked him. I’m still working it up. Probably it troubles me b/c I don’t know what I’m more scared of, agreeing with or disagreeing with the answer.

I remember specifically the point in my life when I realized my father was human; until that point he’d been an abstraction, an a priori knowledge, a figure that w/o question defined me, a father; then my knowledge named reality and it’s propensities finally enveloped him too, and he became not a father, but my father: fallible, vulnerable, and questionable. It was my first epiphany. It was the point when I began to really love both my parents…a point of origin, if you will, since it seems like the love a child has for their parents is an ongoing journey. No?

I digressed. B/c I’ve nothing to add to death. And I am skeptical of anyone who claims to. But before death, in life, that thing we call love seems like one of the sure good things going, so I thought it worth mentioning. And family is what this comes down to, whoever you call family in life, those definite to you. Here is my family, portraits taken on the side of my parents house, taken the last time for awhile we’d all be together…

photo: David Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.

photo: Maureen Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.

photo: Erin Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.


photo: Graeme Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.

photo: Scott Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.

photo: Ian Mitchell; Canby, OR; 2007. ©Graeme Mitchell.