Linda Jordan

I’m always intrigued by the way different cultures handle death and grieving. I live on a checkerboard Indian Reservation – which means some of the land is owned by tribal members, some by other individuals who aren’t tribal members (that would be me) and some by the tribe as a whole. It’s a beautiful place to live, lots of forest and is mostly quiet and serene, except on July 4, but that’s another story.

The other day while driving into town, I noticed cars pulling in right and left at a house on the main road. Then farther down the road, two huge fire trucks and one aid car passed me by coming from town. I ran my quick errand and headed home.

At the house I’d passed earlier, the huge lawn was filled with parked cars. One of the fire trucks was getting ready to leave and the aid car was loading a stretcher on wheels. My thought was that someone had died or was really, really sick.

A day later, all the cars were still there. A large green tent had been put up and lots of folding chairs were stacked nearby. It took me a few years of living out here to realize that’s what happens for funerals. I figured the tent and chairs is either loaned or rented from the tribe.

What struck me most about the other day was the close network. Half the tribe knew that someone was dead or dying and had arrived, even before the aid car made it to the home.

None of that happened in my family. Over the course of many, many years, one of my brothers died, then my Dad, then a couple of years ago my Mom. They all had friends, but family lived pretty far away. There was nothing like that kind of gathering.

Yes, there were funerals. I didn’t go to my brother’s – I was only 5. My Dad’s funeral was small, if I remember right. There might have been a reception at the house, can’t remember. We did go out to the cemetery.

My Mom’s funeral was in her church as she requested. There was a reception in their meeting rooms with a lot of her friends and afterward, my brother, sister-in-law and I scattered her ashes like Mom wanted.

I do remember that neither funeral held much for me on an emotional level. They simply weren’t my way of grieving.

I still remember a conversation that a friend from Wales and I had about death many, many years ago. She had just been back to Wales for a wake and was struck by the differences between American funerals and Welsh wakes.

Everyone at the wake had a drink or two and spent time talking about the person, becoming emotional, weepy and there were lots of hugs going around. The event lasted and entire day and most of the night.

The American funerals she’d been to were very reserved with a little teariness, some nice words said about the deceased and then mostly people left. That was pretty much my experience with funerals, although the ones on my husband’s side of the family have tended to be much larger and somewhat more emotional than those of my family.

I’m not sure what all this adds up to, just noticing how different we all are. It leaves me with a respect for other people and their way of handling the big, and little, parts of life. If I didn’t have those differences to look at, I’d probably never question my own life and wonder why I made the choices I did.

And I think the important thing is asking those questions about your own choices.

That phrase rears its head from one of my art history classes – fear of empty space. Think Egyptian Art, Victorian homes, my house…. Space opens up in our house and is almost immediately filled with something else.

I used to joke with friends that there was this universal law in operation that when the number of animals occupying your life decreased for some reason, that same number of homeless animals would show up on your doorstep.

Earlier this month our horses went to their new home. Leaving a vacancy. My daughter who’s eight, has been begging for her own pet for years now. A kitten, a puppy, a bunny, she’s not picky. Just something furry that’s still a baby. I’ve spent the last several years explaining that babies are a lot of work to take care of, that kittens are nocturnal, dogs can’t be left alone for days and neither can bunnies.

Finally, I decided that if there was a time to add to the family, then this was it. It’s winter break – so she’d be home to bond with the new kid, and could deal with a few sleepless nights. I started looking for kittens. We already have three cats, so I figured kittens would be easier to integrate than an adult cat. The more I researched, the more it said – get two so they can play with each other and not harass the older cats.

We spent an entire day getting supplies – two extra litter boxes, more food bowls, two more cat climbing trees/scratching posts and a cat bed. And maybe a few toys. We spent another entire day baby proofing her room. An amazing feat – the flat surfaces in her room are actually vacant. For the first time in years!

The next day we went to a couple of shelters looking for kittens. At the first one, the kitten we’d seen online – an orange tabby had already been adopted that morning. So we looked at a few cute fuzzies then moved on to another shelter.

Eleven kittens to choose from. It took us an hour or two to narrow the choices down. She loved all of them. It was a fabulous shelter with cats roaming free and an amazing amount of people who dropped in simply to hang out and pet or play with (socialize) all the critters.

So I, who always, always, clip my keys to my purse, had stuck them in my coat pocket because the noise was scaring a couple of the kittens, went out to the truck to get our cat carriers. Left my coat in the truck and my keys on the front seat. In the locked truck. And didn’t realize it until an hour later when I needed to get my checkbook from the truck. I don’t remember EVER locking my keys in any car. EVER.

So, of course this was the day that spousal unit had a two hour dentist appt. At the exact same time I was trying to call him to at least ask for our insurance phone number to call the roadside assistance which is provided free by the policy.

The lovely people at the shelter looked up the number for me and I called, got cut off. When they didn’t call me back (because, of course, inside the shelter I had no bars on my cell), I called again and finally got a body who could look up my policy number and send help.

Problem was – help was an hour and a half away and the shelter closed in half an hour. And baby, it’s cold outside. And it’s 2:30 and neither child or I had eaten since breakfast. And the only food was in the truck. I’m usually much more organized than that, but between getting the latest novel up and Christmas, this year has thrown me for a loop.

So the shelter folks called the gas station down the road (we’re talking rural here) and a guy came up and tried to break into my truck, but my truck is a 2008, too new to do it with his tools. In the meantime we were filling out paperwork, then the shelter folks let us stay a half hour after they closed, while they fed everyone and got ready to go rescue some cats.

The locksmith arrived just as the shelter workers were getting ready to leave and it took awhile, but he got the door open. Unfortunately, we had to leave kittenless. Which was rough on my daughter. So, I did what any lame Mom would do. We had ice cream for lunch on the way home.

And went back the next day to pick up Snowball & Tiger. Although, I call her Tigger, if nothing else, just to annoy my daughter, who at eight, is too old to admit she ever liked Winnie the Pooh.