“Sam”

by Joan M. Bundy
[written as a children’s book manuscript about 1993]

      The first time I ever came face to face with death was in the fifth grade.
      The year was 1980. It was the month of May and I had just turned 11. Life was carefree and full of promise. The boys teased me, and I daydreamed about them. My biggest worry was whether I was going to pass math.
      Then one Wednesday after physical education class—“P.E.” for short, I hated it almost as much as math—I found out that my great-grandfather Sam Ross had died.
      Never before had a relative of mine, as kids are apt to say, “kicked the bucket.” When I heard the news, my first thought was, “Oh, that’s too bad”—the way you might react if you recognized someone’s name in an obituary column.
      Sam wasn’t a complete stranger. I did know a little bit about him: Born on the Sixth of July in the year 1888 (I wouldn’t be surprised if he were a descendant of Betsy Ross), Samuel J Ross (his middle name, like my uncle Mark J Moreland, was simply an initial J; it didn’t stand for anything) served as a Freemason, township assessor, mayor, county supervisor, and even a justice of the peace.
      As well-known as he was in my hometown, I personally didn’t know him very well because he lived in a nursing home by the time I was old enough to recall him. But I do remember this: Sam had a smile on his face every time my family visited him.
      Shortly before he died, I remember going to a birthday party for him. I think he forgot that he was supposed to blow out the candles on his red-white-and-blue-spangled birthday cake, and I don’t think he recognized anyone anymore. Still, he smiled.
      The last time I saw him alive, Sam wasn’t smiling. He was gawking about, his mouth hanging open, as if he suddenly didn’t know where he was or what was going on.
      And although no one said so, the grown-ups must have thought he was going to die soon because everyone came to see him, including aunts, uncles and cousins who lived hundreds of miles away.
      When I found out he had died, I wasn’t surprised. In fact, I was almost glad because, as selfish as it sounds, it meant I could leave school early.
      I went with my family to his visitation and Masonic service at the funeral home. I had never been inside a funeral home before. It was very old but fancy, and lots of people milled around.
      My parents allowed me to walk up to his casket to see Sam one last time. The casket was black and sitting in the middle of the room. Sam was lying inside. He wasn’t moving anymore, just lying peacefully in a black suit.
      But the most fascinating thing was watching everyone else walk up to the casket and pay their last respects to Sam. I saw people I knew, and I saw people I had never seen before. All the adults looked very sad, except for Sam’s daughter.
      When “Grammy” (a term of endearment my cousins and I used for our grandmother) arrived to stay with my family during the funeral activities, I was ready to console her by saying, “Grammy, I’m so sorry you lost your father.” But as usual, when she walked through the door, she was full of smiles, hugs, kisses and questions about how I was. I was so dumbfounded that I said nothing. I have thought many times since what a strong person she was then and had always been.
      The next day, I didn’t have to go to school because it was the day of Sam’s funeral. All of Sam’s relatives gathered at the church before the service so the minister could offer his “condolences” (in other words, he told us how sorry he was).
      Then the entire family proceeded up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary, where the casket stood closed.
      When Grammy got up and gave a eulogy—that’s a speech about someone who has died—she told of calling the nursing home the evening before Sam died and asking how he was doing.
      The nurse rattled off something about him being in stable but weak condition, having taken a few bites of supper and having a temperature. And then the nurse told Grammy: “Oh, yes—he smiled today.”
      Suddenly I understood why Grammy kept smiling. She was trying to carry on Sam’s legacy.
      But, as young as I was, I couldn’t help but cry. After the funeral, some man chauffered my mom and I in one of the cars loaned for transporting family members from the church to the cemetery.
      Suddenly, a wave of grief came over me and I leaned on my mom’s shoulder and began crying, sobbing uncontrollably. The driver glanced back and smiled kindly, probably wondering why an 11-year-old girl would cry about the death of someone she hardly knew.
      At the cemetery, a rain was falling steadily as people began gathering near the grave site. A black tent covered it, just large enough to shelter the family. Friends huddled nearby under umbrellas.
      The casket was lowered into the grave, a prayer was said, and dirt was shoveled on top of the casket. We all went back to the church for a mid-afternoon “luncheon” of so much food it might as well have just been called “dinner” or “supper.”
      But I wasn’t hungry just then. I was too busy thinking about what Sam would have thought of all these people gathering to remember him.
      In fact, I know he would have smiled.


“Sam” by Joan M. Bundy ? 1993