Goodbye Mercedes Man

Day has now broken, and the sun is starting to make its slow ascent in yet another blue sky. On this fresh new day, the beaches on our Spanish Island will soon be overflowing with visitors from the farthest corners of Europe, gloriously basking in the incongruous summer heat of this Autumn day. It’s a good day to bid Papa farewell. As we make the short journey on foot back to the apartment, Sis and I agree that The Wake is indeed a beautiful way of accompanying the deceased on his last earthly journey. With tears and heartfelt emotion the entire community turns out to say goodbye (see posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook), and once this has been done, the free Therapy Session begins. As the key turns in the front door, our hearts feel that bit lighter, for as we sat around Papa's coffin we were also recipients of some of that wonderful Wake Therapy (see post The Professionals).

From our seats at the front of the church Mama, Sis, Zara and I watch, as Papa’s coffin is lifted from its resting place near to the altar and carried out to the hearse car waiting outside. The Wake is now long over, the time for the funeral service has come and gone, and a fresh set of tears have been shed. It was a beautiful ceremony, a dignified end to Papa's last moments on Earth, and as at Finnish Grandma Elisabet's funeral many years earlier (see post Wakes And Weddings), I am not clad in black and neither is Mama, Sis or Zara. No spoken words have been exchanged, yet we have all understood that our grief is carried internally and that the colour of our clothing has no bearing on this. In fact, the vast majority of the mourners are dressed similarly to us with tidy everyday clothes, and it feels comforting to see that in the midst of everyday village life, everybody has come together to say their last goodbye to Papa. One of the pall bearers is Cousin Alberto, the other three men from the village honoured with the task. Sis dabs her moist eyes with a handkerchief and tells me that her husband would have wanted to carry Papa's coffin and I say that Hugo, Papa's only grandson, would have also wanted to join him. Neither of them are here on this day, but I close my eyes and before me the coffin of our Spanish Andalusian Papa is carried out from the church and into the nearby hearse by his beloved Finnish Grandson and English Son-in-law to begin the journey to the last resting place in a Canarian cemetery high in the mountains overlooking our Island. A fitting end for this restless explorer; were it not for his passion for adventure, none of us would be here today.

This was the Papa that, on a Sunday like any other, took a three-year-old to an empty hole in the ground that would one day become a swimming pool in a yet-to-be-born tourist resort (see post Share The Moon), the Papa that looked after us all when we were newly arrived in England, the Papa with whom a six-year-old learned her first words in English and all about the mysteries of the English including their mystical Tea Breaks (see post Watching The English Part I), the Papa who taught a seven-year-old never to think herself self lesser than any one else, and to be proud of her Spanish blood (see post B Is For Bullied). And finally, the Papa with the soulful Andalusian voice and flamenco music that flowed in his veins, the legacy of a childhood home in that faraway place called 'The Other Planet'. Goodbye Papa, until we meet again.

The hearse is an elegant silver Mercedes car with large glass windows on all three sides, and inside rests Papa's coffin covered with four beautiful wreaths, each one conveying its own tender goodbye from the Garrido-Sanz family, scattered across the farthest reaches of Europe. From our Island off the Western coast of Africa, there is Mama. From mainland Spain and Andalusia, there is Papa's own Brother, Eduardo. From England there is Sis, daughters Zara and Alicia, and Husband Harry. And finally, up and above from the distant Arctic Circle and Finland, there is Hugo, Sofia and myself. As the hearse gently pulls away, Mama, Sis, Zara and I slowly follow behind on foot, wiping away the tears and squinting in the bright sunshine whilst our guests, accompanying us in our sorrow, follow behind at a respectable distance. Once the hearse reaches the perimeter of the village, it stops for a moment, and we climb into the first leading car to follow the cortege up into the mountains for the final internment and burial.  Once we pull way, everyone follows behind in their own vehicles. The usually boisterous Spaniards are now uncommonly quiet and our valley of tears has reached overflow. For the moment, we have nothing more within us.

Our final Goodbye to Papa has been said, we have all returned from the cemetery and are now once more at Mama's apartment in the village. It's already late afternoon and finally we will get the first opportunity for some unbroken sleep since Papa passed away just twenty-four hours earlier. Mama, Sis, Zara and I are all exhausted, we tumble in to bed and within minutes everybody is in a deep sleep. Except for me. From my bedside I drowsily send Hugo in Finland some Whatsapp photographs of Grandpa's last journey in the funeral car up to the cemetery. Back comes an instant message reply which rudely awakes me from my near imminent slumber. 'Wow! A flashy silver Mercedes! What a way to go, Granddad would have been well happy. The only thing missing was the flamenco singer!'  And with nostalgia I realise that, yes, Hugo is absolutely right, the Mercedes Man indeed went out in style in the car of his dreams, only the flamenco singer was missing. And I close my eyes, fall into a deep sleep and remember a far-away visit as a child with Mama and Papa to Flamenco And The Other Planet. 

To be continued...

Next post 5th May: The Other Planet

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.

The Professionals

The reminiscing moments of the early years in Finland with Grandma Elisabet are now over (see posts Grandma Elisabet And The Hayshoes and  Tanks And Treasures and Wakes And Weddings), I am once more back at Papa's Wake on our Island of Tenerife and Cousin Sebastian has just said his goodbyes. It´s Sunday morning and the darkest hour before dawn, and Mama, Sis, and I are still at the morgue silently watching over Papa's coffin just feet away from where we are seated. We are now beginning to feel the strain of the Wake and it challenges with no food or drink and little or no sleep  (see  posts Gathering And Remembering and The Notebook). The stream of visitors has abated but still it continues albeit at a drizzle of a pace. The elderly ladies that arrived many hours ago when the mortuary doors were first opened are still here, and are now dozing in their chairs set around the coffin on the opposite side to our family with their walking sticks resting beside them. Clearly there is nobody for them to talk to at this late hour so they rest. Yet, when a new visitor appears, they sense the arrival like a hawk, immediately perk up and start a new animated conversation with said persons. They are the oldest visitors to come and pay their respects, yet they are the last to leave. Everyone else has already come and gone but they are still here. How do they do it, where do they get this energy from? I think to myself.

I come to understand that these elderly Ladies dozing on the other side of the coffin are not at all idle, rather they have an incredibly busy schedule as they go from Wake to Wake, one after the other in rapid succession and with enormous efficiency. Earlier I heard them discussing with one another the next Wake that they will be attending in the adjacent village. Now I see that they sensibly gather their strength in between Wakes with strategically placed power naps during the lull periods. ‘What clever Ladies!’, I think to myself. Whoever told me that they were both retired pensioners did not know what they were talking about. They are most certainly both in full-time employment and that is as Professional Wake Visitors. I cannot for the life of me understand how they keep up this frenetic pace. It must be positively exhausting going from one village to the next, day after day in search of the next Wake.

Sometimes, the Ladies get lucky and two people from the same village die on the same day and then the Wake is held simultaneously for the two families in adjacent rooms of the same mortuary. That way they cover Two-Wakes-In-One with minimal travel time. If the village mortuary has only one room, then it’s too bad and the two families must share it between them, an invisible demarcation line suddenly springing up and running down the centre of the room dividing two deceased, two mourning families, and two Mamas each with their own internal notebooks. These are the most challenging of all the Wakes, the Ladies concur, one must ensure to divide one’s attention equally between both sets of mourning families. Drat those mourning Mamas and their internal notebooks. They notice everything! (see  post The Notebook).Yet, despite this, the Ladies feel special compassion for the two mourning Mamas. As well as ensuring that everybody attending their own Wake behaves in accordance with protocol, they must make sure to do likewise for the deceased family on the other side of the demarcation line!

We are still chatting with our visitors, but I have noticed that the subject of the conversation has slowly evolved in a completely new direction. It's no longer about Papa, rather the visitors are now talking about their own personal matters with one another, with us, and I realize that as well as a place to ‘Share the Sorrow’, The Wake is also an enormous complementary therapy session for anyone that cares to attend. No one is in any rush to leave, there is no eating or drinking to get in the way, and anyone that cares to can relieve themselves of their innermost secrets, safe in the knowledge that nothing will be divulged outside the confines of the mortuary. What's said at the Wake stays at The Wake. As is common in many village communities, people take on multiple jobs and so it is also at Papa’s Wake. For Mama, Sis and I, the Chief Mourners, are also Chief Therapists. We are going nowhere so happily listen to the grievances and woes of ours visitors who have now transformed themselves into clients. As one generally selects one’s therapist according to age and other criterion, it is similarly done at this Wake. Mama is immersed in her own discussions with her own line of friends and family all of similar elderly age and background, whilst Sis and I are tending to our own peer group, the middle-aged set. My English niece Zara has been gracefully excused from this important secondary duty, for she has been unable to meet the stringent language requirements. Had her Spanish been deemed sufficient, she would have been immediately assigned her own much in-demand therapy line: adolescents

There are plenty of topics to cover but the overriding theme seems to be relationships; with children, with relatives, with friends, with neighbours, with spouses, partners, past, present and for some, hopefully future. Most conversations are now beginning with the words, 'I have never told anyone this but...' and we listen with patience, kindness, an open mind to each of our client's predicament, pronounce our learned opinion on said topic, and then move onto the next intimate chat with the next person sat around Papa's silent coffin. And it's not just us having this conversation, I hear that they are all equally engrossed with one another in similar exchanges. Everyone clearly seems to know that, when attending a village Wake, a complementary therapy session is always available if needed. How wonderful, I think to myself. Therapists in England and Finland would be horrified to learn about the efficiency of Wake Therapy. They do not realize how fortunate they are, that in their own countries there are no Wakes for them to compete with for their business. For if there were, they would be out of a job in the blink of an eye. Why pay for therapy when you can get it for free?

I also come to understand that the Village Wake is not just a place for mourning, rather it is a social event that the entire community gathers for, which also happens to include a death. And after the tears have been shed, the Wake Therapy begins. Should the Wake Family members not have the necessary expertise, help is at hand. For the elderly ladies sat on the other side of Papa's coffin, The Wake Professionals, are also excellent Wake Therapists in their own right with countless sessions behind them, and I am sure many more still to come. I re-examine these two women, now chatting animatedly to a set of newly-arrived visitors, and I view them with utmost respect. Their appearance at each and every Wake for miles around ensures that no deceased leaves this world forgotten, and I feel nothing but gratitude that they have honoured our Papa's last hours on this Earth with their presence. Dawn is finally breaking over our Island and Zara has now returned to the mortuary. Sis and I are relieved for the next few hours for some much-needed rest before the last part of this wonderful gathering reaches its final stage: The Funeral.

To be continued...

Next post 21st April : Goodbye Mercedes Man

Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some small additions from private family archives.