An ending where it all began

THE FIRST THING I notice are the buzzards. You don’t usually get buzzards at funerals in America these days. And the cows. And the smell of cows. That’s a little unusual too.

Welcome to West Texas, circa 2004. It might as well be 1953, the year I was born in Ranger, an oil boomtown long since gone bust.

My dad was born here too, in 1922. He’s been a lot of places since -- to nearby Abilene for college, cut short by enlistment in the Royal Canadian Air Force and a trip to Canada. Back to Texas after Pearl Harbor for more pilot training in the Army Air Corps, then off to England. Sixty-six combat missions over Europe in a P-47 (the best fighter of the war, and if you disagreed, you’d better not do so to Dad’s face). Home after the war, then a lifetime spent traipsing across the United States, building the pipelines that would carry the oil and gas that would help fuel the world’s greatest economy.

And finally, 20 years ago, back to Ranger, to a lakeside home and retirement, to the town where his mother died at 98, to the place where his father is buried.

Now, at 82, he’s gone, ravaged by cancer, fighting to the end so he could take care of my mother, who’s waging her own battle with Alzheimer’s.

So we gather too, the four surviving children of our family of five.

In the distance, a hum, which some mistake for helicopters. Instead, it’s three Cessnas from the Ranger airport on a flyover, a final and fitting tribute, a fighter pilot’s farewell.

It’s a homecoming of sorts for the kids, because as everyone knows, “You can become an American, but you have to be born a Texan.” Texas hasn’t really been home in 40 years -- I’m a Californian now -- but it takes only hours for my speech to slow, to once again tip a hand to fellow motorists, to smile and say “How you?” to strangers and friends alike.

On arrival, we head straight to the funeral home. Its chapel is small, with a dozen rows of pews. Dad’s coffin is at one end, surrounded by flowers and pictures from his life, his war medals on a small table next to his high school athletic letters. About 50 feet away, at the opposite end of the chapel, another man lies in his coffin, surrounded by visitors.

Here in these small towns, the funeral business is one of the few growth industries.

It’s not windy. Hard to believe in West Texas. As a child growing up here, I loved to draw pictures of trees, and in my drawings, all were bent at 45-degree angles, forced over by the wind. Only March, it’s already hot. I look at my feet, just in case there’s a nest of fire ants. Insect sounds come from the nearby mesquite trees.

The second morning I’m up early for a run, pounding down the two-lane country road, past the dead armadillo and the beer bottles and cans. I’m sure the drivers in their pickup trucks are saying, “That’s Charlie’s boy, what in hell is he doing?” No one runs for exercise in Ranger.

Later, my nephew wants beer. We stop at a convenience store, where he learns the meaning of “dry county.” No demon rum here. Five miles away, across the county line, the devil is welcome, and we can buy beer.

The preacher -- not a minister, thank you very much -- starts, and he’s talking really slow and really loud. Ah, of course! Most of the people in attendance are old, and they don’t hear so well. We get the basics, the Lord’s Prayer, then another verse -- “That isn’t right!” he mutters, as failing eyes battle the Texas sun before he finds the proper lines.

My parents’ house is a wreck. Days before Dad’s death, high winds blew down the TV antenna and ripped off the screened-in porch, pitching it across the yard and into a field. That came after wires leading to the house had shorted, sparking a brief grass fire just as my sister and mother came back from the hospice. Which was followed by the septic tank backing up into the shower. I asked my sister when the locusts were due. But the place is filled with pictures of family, and familiar objects, like my old fishing pole and my pool cue, and my mother’s quilts and antiques.

Time for the eulogies. I thank those who helped my dad through his final days; my brother and sister deliver amusing and heartfelt anecdotes and sentiments. The funeral home director, a family friend, also speaks fondly of Dad. Then a song from the preacher, who accompanies himself on guitar. He’s no Frank Sinatra, but it’s touching anyway. It feels like home. Not a bad place to spend eternity, I guess.

Gazing about the cemetery, I notice all the Confederate battle flags near the headstones. I remember how, growing up, I was so sad that the South lost. It seems so long ago. We gather to talk, smiles and hugs, and finally to the cars, where we honk at my sister, a sign it’s time to leave. It’s actually a family joke -- Dad always went out and got into the car early, letting my mom do all the preparations for a trip, then he would honk impatiently until we appeared.

Finally, the military honor guard steps forward. Three soldiers from Ft. Hood, a young man and two young women. Later I learn that all are headed for Iraq. Taps sound (recorded, of course; there is a shortage of buglers), the flag is folded, and on bended knee the young woman soldier presents it to my mother. “From the president of the United States,” she says, in memory of my dad’s service and her loss. Inwardly, I’m smiling at that, because Dad despised this president.

I’m home now. I bring with me three things: the blue blazer Dad wore to my wedding, which fits me despite the fact that I’m 5-foot-8 and he was 6 feet tall; a picture of Dad in his Army Air Corps uniform; and a picture of him taken shortly after the war. In it, he stands next to the Beechcraft Bonanza he flew for a construction company, jaunty in a hat, rail thin, full of life, eyes fixed on the horizon. The man in the picture, taken years before I was born, is someone I never really knew. But it’s always been my favorite. I imagine Dad looking into the future, bright with promise, eager to get on with life. He’s unaware of the heartaches and struggles and turmoil the next 50 years will bring.

Instead, he looks like he’s about to take off, flying free.

Clear skies, Dad.