Smith Island Funeral 1990

Friday November 18 2011.
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medical         *
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I'm sitting in the chemotherapy infusion room at the Stanford Clinic. My blood was drawn first thing this morning and an IV established at the same sitting. Dr. Jim Fishback, a friend from my last job in prison was good enough to get to my house this morning at 3AM to make the trip with me. We had wonderful conversation and no need for music on the road up.
                                                                                                                                     
My nurse today is Maggie. Efficient and kind. The infusion room is set up with a comfortable recliner, a swing out flat screen TV with more than 30 channels. Lots of plugs so that I can use my laptop, recharge my phone, etc. There is a 20 foot glass enclosed wall that I am facing looking out onto the canopy of trees which are showing some color. Greens, reds, and yellows. A very nice space.

There was a cardiac arrest in the next room within my eyesight. I couldn't see the patient but I heard her call out and got to watch the response team for the first few minutes before they were able to switch modes from life-saving to preserving privacy. It was impressive response work--these folks are on the ball. Michael Jackson should have come here to sleep. The patient was defibrillated in less than 90 seconds after I heard her call out. They got her back and she was transferred to the hospital.
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Jesse Brimer's Funeral

It is said that in the European Middle Ages, it was unusual for an individual to travel more than a few miles away from his place of birth. What would it be like to spend a lifetime in such sameness? Smith Island, Maryland provides a living example of multiple childhood friendships extended on out through life.

I had moved from the Island a few years before. Recently I had begun dating Hilary, a paralegal whom I met over the course of a lawsuit brought by a prisoner unhappy with his medical care. She was not only beautiful but had trained at the New England Conservatory and was an accomplished pianist. When I first met her I think she had asked me about my previous medical practices and I mentioned Montana. She asked me if I were familiar with Giants in the Earth by Ole Rolvaag. Magical thinking intervened. This was  a book that my father had sent me when I lived in Montana. Published more than 50 years before, it was a great read and wonderful insight to the harshness of carving out a life in the Northern Plains of the United States in the 19th century. What were the chances that someone from Baltimore would ask me about this wonderful and largely unknown book of a half-century past?

When I first went to her house and looked in her bookcase, it was as if I were looking at my own. She had a copy of James Agee's "A Death in the Family," one of my favorites. She seemed to be reading Edith Wharton as was I. There was quite a similarity of taste in literature.

Hilary was and still is an amazing doer. She is the community worker who doesn't need to be the leader, the person who will put out the newspapers and fliers, will volunteer for the food kitchen, literally spends a good part of her life in service of others--a saintly woman if you will. But beautiful, gorgeous, Nordic. I was head over heels for her but I lived 150 miles from Baltimore and I had two teen-age boys. I worked 50 or 60 hours a week at a prison. She worked a full-time job and was occupied with numerous volunteer obligations, together with childcare responsibilities for her niece and nephew. I was impatient and was unable to grant her the space that she needed to develop a relationship like a stew rather than a steak. She shot me down, in a very gentle way, but the fat man was down.

So it was the right time to go to a funeral. I really felt like crying.

I drove to Crisfield and caught the ferry to the Island. The beginning of funeral services was coordinated with the expected arrival time of the boats. I climbed up on top of the roof of the boat to have maximum privacy and allowed myself commiseration and tears. I cried for everyone but mostly myself.

His name was Jesse Brimer, Senior, a very good man, and he had been my patient for four years. He suffered from severe coronary artery disease with frequent attacks of angina. A few years prior Louise and I had a conversation about her husband's condition. He had an episode of angina and a seizure in the bath tub and she was afraid something similar would happen and that she would not have the strength to intervene.

We had the discussion about death. That it could occur at any time. Improvement was very unlikely, and yes, it was possible that another episode could occur at a time and place where she would be powerless to intervene. What was important was that he wanted to be there in that house with her. He did not want some institution with strangers bathing him. It was important that he be given the chance to live and die in his own home, even if that meant some slight increase in risk of death.

She was determined to experience fully and to be thankful for whatever time remained to them and they had another four years together in love surrounded by family and friends.

The Brimers were among a few Smith Island families that had taken pity on me when I moved there in 1983 with my sons Brian and Keith, who were eight and five at the time. At least once or twice a month, I would receive a crab casserole or an oyster stew from Louise, usually carried down to my house by daughter, Peg or son, Jesse Boy.

On Smith Island, the son named after father was not called junior (except perhaps in the case of Junior Evans.) The son of Jesse would be called "Jesse Boy" to distinguish him from his Dad. There was a Ruke and a Rukie Boy who later became just "Rukie." To get permission to write about his dad, I talked to Jesse Boy the other day. He is now 64, his dad is dead, but he remains Jesse Boy

Mr. Brimer had passed away at home. The body was taken off by boat for embalming and returned in a casket a couple of days later. The casket was placed in the Church. It was traditional for the young boys to sneak into the Church to view the body on the night before the service. I assume that this tradition was upheld for Mr. Brimer as well but I can't confirm it with eyewitness accounts.

The immediate family and the open casket were plainly visible at the communion rail of the church when I arrived at the church.  An usher immediately escorted me to the family where I was greeted warmly by the Brimers and given an opportunity for some private time with the body of this old friend.  Following some hugs all around,  I made my way to the back of the Church in order to find a seat and to observe.

The floor of the Church was very much alive in a respectful fashion. Most seats were taken. Almost all in attendance were engaged in conversation but done so softly in "church" voice that there was a sense of an overall gently humming or murmur rather than a loud noise. There was a lot of foot traffic as people sought out old friends.

Funerals are an important social function on the Island. Families from all three villages mingle together in churches. Old acquaintances are renewed and updated. Important information and remembrances are passed as the Church appeared to fill past overflowing.

The service begins with a prayer and then a group of ushers and women step forward and assist the family from the step. The grief from the family wells up in loud moans and screams. Each family member is surrounded by attendants and supported as the tears and wailing flow freely. Gradually and gently the family members are moved down the side aisle to the door of the Church. Upon their departure, a group of men steps forward and closes the casket.

Jesse Brimer's casket is covered with a flag. This part of the service reminded me of film clips I had seen of African-American funerals where open expression of grief is encouraged and considered to be a healthy behavior. This was so real, so open, so raw, so piercing, so shattering. I feel like crying now thinking about that grief (curiously at another time in my life where I have some reason for feeling sorry for myself.)

There is a prayer and a song, and the family returns to the church. They are now fully composed and a more or less standard funeral service begins with several eulogies, songs sung by the sweetest voices imaginable and a brief, well-delivered sermon.

When the service ends and the church empties,  the crowd splits into three parts. A good number accompany the casket to the gravesite next to the Church. Another group heads toward the docks to catch boats and meet other obligations on this Saturday afternoon. The remainder enter the great room in the basement of the Church where the women have put out a funeral feast of fried oysters, oyster stew, clam fritters, crab casserole, creamed corn, macaroni and cheese, green beans and kale, potato au gratin, crab balls and crab cakes, several kinds of cake including a few of the eight-layer traditionals that have been named the Cake for the State of Maryland, and an assortment of pies. The primary drink is ice tea. No alcohol is served, but a few of the men appear to have brought their own.

The graveside service is rather brief and we mourners turn back to the Church and the Funeral supper. The feast goes on for at least two hours. The family moves through the room and thanks each attendee individually. The socialization continues at an increased decibel level and over time the feasting room empties leaving a hard core cadre of close friends and working women who are putting away the food. There are still plenty of leftovers. There is hot coffee and a variety of treats and the next hour or so is spent in more intimate conversations and remembrances among the closest friends and family.

I don't want to leave but I can't stay any longer. There is a special late boat to the mainland for a tarrier like myself but I must make that in order to get home to the kids this evening.

When I think about my childhood acquaintances, I seldom knew their relatives or grandparents who passed away.

How different on Smith Island where all knew one another. Each death was that of an acquaintance. Every death mattered.

When I started to practice on the Island, more than 1/2 the patients were named "Evans." In fact, a handful of surnames included more than 90% of the population. I stumbled upon the scheme of filing charts by birth date. It turned out to be a fortuitous way of looking backward in time and identifying persons who would have attended school together, who would be most likely to be among the long-time friends.

When I was attending to a bed-ridden 80 year-old Essie in the mobile home next to the medical clinic, her old classmate, Mabel Evans walked in the door. On Smith Island doors are not locked. It is common for persons to just enter  another's house without knocking and announcing themselves. Mabel stood at the foot of Essie's bed. "Can I get in bed with you?"

"No, Mabel. Not today. I'm just not right. Maybe tomorrow."

Friends for life, even to sharing a bed for a nap from time to time.