Jane Soli
The procession crept down Division Street. The neon sign at the Rock County Bank flashed 94 degrees and 3:06. Behind the plate glass of The River Inn, businessmen shook dice for their afternoon coffee. Lois Palmer came out of Hanson's Variety Store carrying a lampshade.
Why did you die, Dan? Did you have to die when the children were so young? You were lean and fit, physically active, no apparent health problems. You were fine when you went to bed, but I heard your death rattle; a small cough, I thought. You were dead when I came to bed five minutes later.
Is there any money? Will Karen be able to finish her last year of college? How about Peter-he's only seventeen. And then Johanna and Tina, thirteen and eleven. At least Sig is out of school. Such problems. Such a loss. How will I ever manage?
Two things came back to me during those early days of worry, fear, and grief. I recalled twenty years of bridge games with Judy and Elmer and the late-night discussions of death and funerals as we ate brownies and drank coffee. We spoke of our own deaths and our personal wishes. Dan, always the most vocal, stated again and again, "Don't spend any money on me when I am dead," and "Give me a military funeral." There was not a man in the USA more proud to be a Marine than Dan Soli. To hear him tell it, the Marines fought World War II single-handedly. Though he was 33 and the others in boot camp were 18, he was a member of the United States Marine Corps and never mind if the recruits called him "Grandpa."
About one hundred yards into the cemetery the procession came to a stop. I saw the fake grass surrounding the open grave over by the fence. Close by stood the caretaker's tool shed with a barrel for refuse in front. Someone had lettered a crude sign above the barrel. It said, "RUBBAGE." The gravediggers stood behind the tool shed waiting to complete their job.
As the casket moved from the hearse to the waiting pallbearers, the honor guard, smart in their black uniforms, aligned themselves on either side of the men carrying the casket and accompanied them to the gravesite.
The children and I left the car to follow. Tina cried, "I'm too young to be without a father," and clung to me. I had vowed to remain dry-eyed. My silly little purse held a lawn hanky-no Kleenex, no billfold, no lipstick. I would not open that purse.
Friends and relatives surrounded the grave as Pastor Jensen gave the committal service. Somehow the next part took me by surprise. Two of the honor guards stepped forward and together removed the American flag from the casket. With ceremony they folded it in the traditional way and presented it to me-the widow.
The two uniformed men rejoined the honor guard and they all stepped back from the mourners. At the command of the captain they fired a twenty-one gun salute.
At that point Peter moved away from the family, raised his trumpet and blew Taps for his dad. Sweet, melancholy notes rose plaintively over the gathered crowd. From the other side of the hill came the faraway echo. My heart ached with the pain of that moment.
Later, Alice Overbeck came over to me, reached for my hand and said, "Too bad your husband died, but you'll get over it." She was wrong; I didn't get over it. I cry when I hear Taps.
Jane Soli was the retired secretary to the academic dean of Saint Olaf College, Northfield, MN. She wrote this article shortly after her retirement in 1989. Michael Leming read it at her memorial service in 1999.