"Those we love don't go away, They walk beside us every day, unseen, unheard, but always near, Still loved, still missed and very dear." - Prayer on an Irish Headstone
Five days in Montana were not enough to celebrate my father's life, share stories in which he figured prominently, laugh over my uncle's tall tales and weep at the cemetery From joy at embracing my brothers and their families again, to awe at my grown-up nieces and nephews, to tears when an unexpected picture of Dad caught me unawares, I flew up and down the roller coaster of emotions.
Dad was a devout Catholic and we celebrated Mass for him in the shadows of the mountains, just up the road from the cherry tree orchard where we used to go and pick buckets of the ripe red fruit. I passed out cotton handkerchiefs in Dad's memory because when I was a child, he always had a clean and pressed hankie on hand. When I could barely see over the ironing board, I helped Mom spray and iron those squares and swelled with satisfaction when my stack was done.
My brother Michael read from the Old Testament at the service, not looking up to meet the eyes of his family until after he was done, when the tears came. Crying turned to laughter when he sat in the pew and his five-year-old daughter, Mae, leaned in, asking in a stage whisper, "When's it MY turn?"
The next generation provided wonderful comic relief but also tender support. When my youngest brother, James, stepped up to the lectern for the second reading, and broke down when trying to speak of Heaven, his three-year-old son grabbed him in two little hands and tried to kiss his tears away. Having our families around us felt true to Dad's legacy, and seeing his oldest brother, Greg, age 90, in church brought more tears and also gratitude. Greg later told me how much he had wanted to come when dad was ill, but his own infirmities kept him at home on the East Coast, "until it was too late." But he took great joy in connecting with each of us and sharing new tales of his times with dad both in childhood and in New York City, when they were young professionals together.
The next day, representatives from the VA came out to the cemetery where my father has a headstone. They set up a podium with an empty helmet suspended over empty boots, and presented my mother with an American flag in Dad's honor. Dad was a Specialist, 5th class, in the Army, and when the white-haired, bewhiskered gentlemen formed a line and did rollcall, they shouted his name and rank. "Clavadetscher, Julius!" No reply. "Clavadetscher, Julius!" Again, no reply. The silence was unexpectedly agonizing, and two of the men in our midst had to whisper "Here" in Dad's absence. Yet they called once more, "Clavadetscher, Julius!" and only then received a reply. "He's not here, he's gone to the great Commander in the sky." An old soldier played taps while John and I each put a hand on Mom's shoulder and handkerchiefs flew up to our faces like birds startled into flight.
At our celebration of Dad's life, I tried to speak coherently of Dad's influence on our lives, his insistence on effort, on service to others, and his adventurous streak that left us children in many harrowing predicaments, halfway up mountains or horseback in a thunderstorm. He was not dull and he had such a strong moral compass that his legacy was never in doubt. William commented when we left Montana how grateful he was to have gone because now he understands more of what a life should be.
But we also laughed and sang and danced - a true Irish wake for the son of an O'Malley. Our cousins stared in amazement as the entire group belted out John Denver's "Wild Montana Skies" in chorus, and as I grabbed James for a jig, his boys' eyes grew wider than dinner plates. I hope the younger generations saw joy in a life well-lived, in the triumph of love and the strength of family bonds. As we drove off to the airport yesterday, they said "We love your family, Mom," and I reminded them it was their family, too.
A few more lasting images of the visit: Mae first standing up on a paddleboard in the lake. She got her little feet square on the rubber mat, leaned forward with two hands searching for balance, then triumphantly stood tall, lifting her fists in the air like an Olympic gymnast who had flown high and stuck the landing. Our flotilla of inner tubes, paddle boards, floaties and chairs gave her a perfect ten and a wet ovation.
Another image: Uncle Greg holding court on the back porch as a rainstorm blew in from the lake, telling us about his love of the nuns at his Catholic school, and the punishments he earned from his German father. The afternoon on the lake, cousins branding each other with water balloons in the front yard, Mom sitting with her brother and sister at church. Thank God for family, for travel, for reunions. We all pledged to do it again soon, whatever the occasion. Thank you, Dad, we love you so much.
