A sunny Saturday with Ashes

I used to be allergic to bee stings. I have gotten stung once or twice in recent years, and I seem to be able to now avoid the attendant elephant-sized swelling that I enjoyed so much as a kid. But the fear of getting stung has not passed, at all.

The Chief issued his orders: "Detail, ten-hut!"

The wasps circled ominously as I stood at attention next to the Cuban, in front of the box of ashes at the side of a hole in the ground. Our flags waved in the freshening morning wind, the sun shone in our eyes. We could barely make out the gold colored cardboard box sitting all lonely next to the freshly dug hole in the cemetery. Overhead the trees were waving for attention, dropping a strange fruit to the ground as they danced. It looked like a cross between a giant cherry and miniature plum. Whatever it was, it was not a pleasant smell from the rotting fruit. I thought at first that Junior Firefighter had stepped in dog crap, and we made him examine his shoes carefully with his white dress gloves on. Negative findings, so we wrinkled our noses and resumed standing at ease trying to steel ourselves for the thirty minutes of standing-at-attention which was to follow. The funeral was for a past Chief of the Department, the father actually of the guy who keeps my car running.

I had the State flag with its yellow fields, the Cuban was trying to hold together the shreds of the Fire Company flag, and Junior managed to snag the U.S. flag again. Flanking us were two more firefighters with the 450 pound ceremonial silver axes. (Okay, I may be exaggerating a bit on the axes, but that's what they feel like after an hour.) All I could focus on was the wasp that was walking around the folds of yellow silk, coming ever closer. It wasn't fair of him, as I was constrained in my mobility at the moment. I wasn't supposed to move at all until we were ordered at-ease again, and the wasp somehow seemed to know this. When the wind picked up he'd hover near my gloves, and then randomly walk back to the yellow silk and hang out for a bit to see if I was paying attention.

Reverend John said his words of consolation, the Chief performed his part with conviction, and then we were done. So were the wasps; as if on cue, they flew off to hover around some piece of dog-poo smelling fruit. The box went into the ground, the crowd melted away, and I got to drive the engine through the cemetery back to the station. I kept having this image of wandering a couple of inches from the narrow asphalt pathway, across some one's grave, and having the wheel of the fire engine suddenly sink into the hole, atop a coffin. Thankfully the mental image remained unfulfilled.