Parastos

When I learned that my uncle Nicky died, I immediately learned that his memorial would not be attended by anyone I knew. Apparently he and his brother Mark had a falling out many years ago. My mother said she didn’t see much point in going either – it’s not like he was going to know. The rift between them emerged in my childhood, but I thought they had healed it. Maybe not.

As a kid I had idolized the man. I didn’t know anyone else who looked like him, acted like him. Laughed like him. He was the reason I wanted to grow my hair long and have a beard. He was the reason I wanted a motorcycle. He had a languid drawl and a sense of adventure and was very tall. He was sardonically funny without being mean, and chronically laid back. As I grew up I tried to emulate what I remembered of him and hoped I would ever grow into being as cool of a person as I perceived him to be. The last time I saw him was twice in 2002; in July at his own father’s funeral, and then a month later at my sister’s wedding.

I made a post with a brief eulogy of my own and tried to shrug off my disappointment because fuck it, what would be the point in my hanging out with a bunch of strangers, intruding on their grief with my curiosity? I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but someone sent me a message that said, “Maybe you should go. You may learn things about him that you didn’t know.”

I was rocked by that thought, and a little embarrassed that I didn’t think of it myself. Ultimately it changed my mind, combined with the fact that my elder sister and her family would be going. If nothing else it would give me a chance to see my nephews while they’re still growing up.

So Friday night I flew down to Kansas City to be in time for a 10 am service on Saturday. My brother-in-law picked me up from the airport and asked, “So where am I taking you?” which was the first surprise of the trip. Didn’t we have lots of family there? Was no one putting us up? Was I supposed to make arrangements? Oh. Oops.

I ended up at the same hotel they were in, who boasts a complimentary shuttle service that costs $5 per person, a kitchen that stays open until 11pm unless they feel like closing two hours early, an indoor swimming pool with water too cloudy to see the five-foot bottom, and a hot tub with water the color of weak iced tea.

Anyway.

St. George The Great Martyr Serbian Orthodox Church has a very pretty chapel. It looks very much like the one where my grandpa’s memorial took place in 2002. Smallish, with a flat wall at the back where hung unlabeled, flatly painted icons of a half dozen saints.  People gathered nearby and looked askance at me, but no one introduced themselves. Some 10 or 15 minutes after the service was supposed to have started we were told the priest had arrived and we should file in to the pews, so we did. No one sat. Nicky had been cremated, so there was no body present.

One icon had its own little stand in front of the sanctuary. On a small table next to it was a bowl of what looked like granola topped with chocolate chips which were in the shape of a cross. The table held two baskets – one full of plastic spoons, the other empty – and a small decanter of wine. A man in his 30’s stepped in front of the sanctuary wearing a long robe and what I assume is his best attempt at a beard and got to business. He held up a small pamphlet, faced away from the congregation toward the central icon, and started reading. The content was all the usual stuff you hear in the movies when the priest is talking over a body, only this guy was . . . it would be classified as singing, but it seemed to me he was just switching between two notes at random. He was also talking so fast I couldn’t make out half of it even when I was trying. From time to time a chorus of 5 would sing something with a melody while the priest would spoon a bit of powder into the censer and wave it back and forth. Sometimes the church bells would ring. They said The Lord’s Prayer 2 or 3 times, and the congregation mumbled along for some of it. Eventually he emptied the wine over the granola, and finally people made a line to kiss the nearby picture of Jesus(?) and eat a spoonful of the boozed oatmeal; a self-serve sacrament.

In short, I have no idea what the fuck happened. I wasn’t raised in the culture.

We gathered in a nearby cafeteria and hesitated being the first one to take a plate and pull something from the buffet line. Five photo collages of my uncle were placed on stands, and people took turns walking past them. One of them had my favorite expression I ever saw on him – an open-mouthed, amused smile of surprise as if he’d just heard (or said) something funny. A nearby table had a stack of printouts of his obituary.

That was it. No one gave a eulogy. No one told a single goddamn story about my uncle within my earshot. If I approached people they’d ask who I was, and then tell me how we’re related, and that they haven’t been in the same room as my mother in about 40 years. They were excited that I was from Chicago; many of them used to live there, but not since about 1990. They lit up when they learned that I was an actor and wondered how they could see me and said they’d look for me. They didn’t talk about themselves, and they didn’t talk about Nicky.

Four hours later we were the last to leave. But one thing I’ll never forget.

Wandering around after the service I struck up a conversation with a couple. “Nicky was my step-dad,” she told me. “You look just like him. I saw the face, and the ponytail, and the boots, and I thought, ‘He HAS to be related.’” It was a glowing moment in the midst of a head-twisting disappointment mixed with the grief of loss.

Hopefully I’ll make something enough out of myself so that my nephews feel about their uncle the way I felt about mine. If I’m really lucky, I’ll feel that way about me, too.