by F.N. Wright
ICHELE MCDANNOLD AND I pull into the cemetery about 45 minutes early to FN Wright’s funeral. We’d met at the Mattoon American Legion, coming from opposite sides of central Illinois, and carpooled as “Team Fez” over to Findlay. A dozen or so uniformed VFW men are already assembled around the spot. We stay in the car for a while, talking about our memories of Fred and our future plans for Red Fez. The military veterans showed up, but we thought it equally likely a biker gang or a passel of hippie writers could have been the dominant group, knowing Fred and his multiple affiliations. It’s a safe bet a colorful and diverse group attended his memorial service in California. Here, family, friends, and old military men are gathered in clusters.
Burial ceremonies are depressing and bizarrely dignified. There are the tarps and cloths, the flowers, stones and chairs, the gaunt professionals in suits and dark glasses that gently but confidently guide the service. The immediate family feels the most grief as the finality of their loss sets in. Friends and distant relatives share in the sadness and feel awkwardly unable to provide any real comfort, which only time can provide.
A photo collage stands up in the corner of the blue tarped tent. FN Wright’s image as a child. FN Wright a young man in the service. FN Wright in his prime at his typewriter (an obligatory photo for writers of his age, and Fred appears in several). FN Wright hugging a pretty woman, a gleam in his eye. FN Wright as a wild white haired old man. Then as we’ve finally met him, caught up in the boxed belly of an engraved bass leaping out of its river.
The services begin suddenly when a man starts talking in a conversational voice, telling us how he admired Fred while growing up with him. Traffic goes by on the highway, one or two cars at a time, a soft whoosh that’s enough to mute the sound of the pastor’s voice. Surely the family can hear him and they’re the ones that need to most. The group, less than fifty of us, gather around at a respectful distance and watch. The Our Father prayer is said but not everyone joins in, not everyone gets the words right.
We can see the honor guard fold up the flag and present it to Fred’s son Stu. The veterans are mostly silent but the emotion of their wartime experiences is broadcast from their faces, in a solemn and moving display. We can hear as Taps is played, with one imperfect note. The rifles sound out in three volleys. Later I see young boys clutching the shell casings, worthy souvenirs. The services are ending and we’re all invited back to the American Legion in Mattoon for lunch.
People slowly start to leave or break into smaller groups. Michele leads the way to introduce ourselves to Stu, now that we have figured out which guy he is, and to awkwardly mumble our condolences. We’re also introduced to Natalie, Fred’s niece who is also a writer and artist. Then we walk away past the stone, and notice it’s a family plot. The name is Kerans. They are in the western corner of the small cemetery, by the highway. Surrounded by cornfields, a train track runs at an angle a short distance behind, as if restless spirits could hitch or hop to anywhere they’d like to be.
“The Artist On The Spanish Hall’s Republican Activities In Monterey, California ,1937”:
by Aurelia Lorca