A funeral in the mountains; ‘changed residence’ and Coming Home

Had to go to Indian Lake Saturday, for Uncle Leroy’s funeral. He had every right to be having a funeral, having been 95 and active and alert up until fairly recently. He wasn’t really an uncle by family, but his family and my folks were very close and so he became our uncle and his sister our Aunt Margaret. He was the last of their generation in that group, another thing making it a sad passage.
The priest remarked that his predecessor had kept a book of all the parishioners and the events in their lives he tended to, and that when someone died he would write ‘change of residence’. Thinking on it, whatever you do or don’t believe in, that’s a pretty good way to describe the final move. Personally I’d like to think I’m just moving on to another new place, maybe seeing some old friends, and having some new adventures. And, there’s the whole Rainbow Bridge thing.
It was fitting that the funeral was on Memorial Day weekend; Leroy served in the U.S. Army during World War II earning the Asiatic-Pacific Service Medal, World War II Victory Medal, American Defense Service Medal, Good Conduct Medal and the American Service Medal prior to his honorable discharge on Jan. 1, 1946. He was active in the American Legion and they gave him a 21-gun salute at the graveside service.
That I recall he wasn’t one to talk a lot about his military time, even with that impressive list of awards - he preferred to talk about hunting and fishing and family. Leroy, your final resting place is near my parents. I hope you find them in your ‘change of residence’ and that you’re telling stories about hunting and fishing and family together there. Where they lie is a near perfect spot, near enough the Cedar River to hear the water racing by, surrounded by trees, mountain views. There’s two more places in our family plot, I claim one.
Speaking of change of residence, it occurred to me as I was driving up Route 28 that on every trip to Indian Lake, somewhere past the top of the North River hill I get a feeling of coming home. There’s the place where if you look off to the left you can get a glimpse of Snow Mountain – when we were kids we’d vie to be the first one to call that we saw it. Then you get to the top of another hill and can see the village water tower and top of the ski slope. Down the hill on the right is where George and Ida Osgood lived with their daughters, and then the barn where George kept the school bus he drove. Cross the inlet between the lakes, up and down another small hill and past the dam and the boat launch, and then you’re in the village. Even though we don’t have the house there any more, and Margaret’s old house where we spent so much time is gone, it’s still home. And I’m glad I got to go there, and to say goodbye to Leroy, and see long-time friends. For too short a time, I was home again.
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