Where The Hell Is Uncle Pop?

Sorry to tell all you enthusiastic readers about this.. but here’s another lesson in death.  Just like the dead-dog story, there is a hidden moral somewhere here.  So, stick with me – I will try not to disappoint you…

My family does not deal well with death.  I have always found this profoundly confusing coming from a Christian family… because Christians believe when they die they go to heaven where everything is covered in awesome-sauce.  So, dying should be like winning the lottery – you get a mansion, you don’t have to work, you can eat whatever you want, RIGHT??    But, my family has some strange death-dysfunction which is baffling to me.

When I was about 23 years old, no one in my family had died yet.  Actually I think someone may have died, but I don’t remember caring, so maybe it was someone I didn’t know.  Regardless.. I had a great-uncle by the name of Pop.   His real name was Bernard Nelson, and he was an Irish Catholic from Savannah, and he always wore an admiral’s hat.  Pop was always old, but spry.  When I was with him, everything always felt a little magical… like the Keebler Elves would jump out from under his admiral hat and shoot yummy-delicious cookies in my mouth. (This is only a metaphor. This really didn’t happen)

   *Here's an actual picture of my Uncle Pop with my Aunt Flora. I think this is infront of the court-house the day they got married.*

Let’s cut right to the punchline – Pop was a million years old and ..well, one day, Pop got sick and died.  My family cremated him and put him in an urn. 

A few months went by, and I went to visit my great-aunt Flora … This was my first visit back since Uncle Pop had died.  I think my aunt was approximately 117 years old, but she still drove a light-blue, big-ass old car.  Obviously I was either drunk or had a momentary lapse of reason, because we were headed off to run some errands that day, and I thought it would be perfectly ok for her to drive. 

As we took our first turn out of the neighborhood, she barely slowed down, and the car wheels squealed as she spun around the first corner.  My head practically hit the glass passenger door window.  But, curiously, I heard a loud object in the trunk roll from one side the to other, then a loud THUD.

A few minutes later we made another sharp turn, and still I heard a loud rolling sound, and THUD.

And then again.

Finally I inquired:

Me:    What’s that noise in the trunk?

Aunt:   I don’t hear a noise.

Me:    I keep hearing something load rolling around and a loud thud when it hits the side.

Aunt:  Oh, that’s  Pop.

Me:    You left Uncle Pop in the Trunk?

Aunt:   I didn’t “leave” him there… That’s where we keep him. (said in a matter-of fact tone of voice)

HOLY CRAP.  She keeps Pop’s urn in the trunk.  Are you kidding me?  What is wrong with these people?  What’s next?  Are we going to put grandma and grandpa in the salt & pepper shakers in the pantry? 

*Not Pop's actual urn, yet similar*

So, after I prayed to the patron saint of safe-driving, we eventually arrived back at her house.   I went inside and looked in the closet for uncle Pop’s admiral hat.  Then I went back out the car, removed Uncle Pop from the trunk, put him in the front seat, buckled him in and put the admiral hat on top of the urn.  Now at least Pop could sit in the damn front seat.  That’s the least he deserved.  

*Replica of my Uncle Pop's admiral hat *

My aunt drove around with Pop in the front seat until she became too old to drive at the ripe old age of 248.  She eventually died and was cremated too.   Now, both her and Pop sit in urns – behind the couch in my mom’s living room.  

I give up.

I imagine in a few years, we’ll have a whole family behind that couch.  Which is better than the trunk.

*Actual picture of my uncle and aunt as I remember them *

**note, I believe at some point, my mother and my aunt Pat took Pop’s urn to Savannah.  I cannot verify this, as I was not there. Never-the-less, I'm reserving my spot behind the couch.  Space is limited. **