In Memoriam: Beth Frumpkin (1951-2008)

We buried Beth Frumpkin today.  And since Beth was Jewish, when we say "we" buried her, it's literal.  Jeannie and I had both been at the cemetery for the funerals of Beth's parents, but that was years ago and I'd forgotten that in a Jewish funeral the last thing that happens is that they remove the tarp covering the dirt dug up in the process of digging the grave, bring out some shovels, and invite everyone there to shovel some of that dirt over the casket.  The Rabbi said it represents the last favor that you will ever do for the deceased -- a favor which can never be repaid.

It was a cold, overcast morning and it drizzled throughout the graveside service, the only service held for Beth who died earlier this week in her sleep at her condo in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.  Actually, that's not true.  While there was no funeral service held at a temple prior to burial, a small group of us got together for a memorial service in her honor at her aunt's home later in the day.  More on that in a moment.

I was very impressed by the Rabbi who officiated at the grave site.  His words were comforting.  And, as seems to happen at every funeral I'm at, I learned a few things about the life of the dead person that I hadn't known before.  In the instant case, I learned that Beth had once served as the secretary to the mayor of Jerusalem.  I did not know that.  I learned that Beth had earned a Masters degree.  I did not know that, either.

Laura was there, attending the first funeral of her life, and I know she was of greater comfort to Jeannie than I had been when, many years ago, another of Jeannie's bestest friends, Suzette, died due to complications from a liver transplant. 

Because of  the weather, a tent had been erected over the grave and because of that, there a very limited number of folding chairs available.  Jeannie was sitting in one of them, and I told Laura to go and stand next to her mother.  They held hands during the service. 

At the end, we tossed flowers into Beth's grave and then we went to work with the shovels.  There was no dirt to work with, however.  It was all mud.  Heavy if you dug in and got a full shovel load.  I helped Laura take a small amount, and she shoveled some of it in herself. 

Then I took her back to school.  She wound up having a great day after the sadness of the morning.  Laura had her friend Laura over after school and while Jeannie and I went to Beth's aunt's place, Laura threw the first dinner party of her life.  The menu included roast chicken from the deli at the Harvest Fresh market, stuffing which she made herself from scratch out of the Stovetop Stuffing box, fresh cranberry sauce from a can, and a bear claw from the bakery at the previously mentioned grocery store.

A dozen or so of us were there for Beth's memorial service at six o'clock in the family room of her Aunt and Uncle's condo.  Other than the fact that the book was printed backwards, the pages running from right to left instead of left to right, the liturgy -- at least the parts spoken in English, didn't sound much different than the things we say every Sunday during parts of our Lutheran service.  Which makes sense.  As Jeannie pointed out, and I think she's correct, we Christians tend to either forget or ignore the fact that the Holy Bible was written by Jews.  We forget that we, too, are from Israel.  The post-communion hymn, sung every Sunday in our church contains this lyric: ...A light to reveal you to the nations, and the glory of your people Israel.

That said, much of the evening service was chanted by a rabbi in a language totally unknown to me.  Afterwards, I felt compelled to lean over and whisper to Jeannie, "There sure were a lot of misspellings in that book!"

I want to comment on the condo where the service was held.  Beth's aunt is an interior decorator, and I told her as I stood in her living room -- and I meant it, that it was perhaps the most beautiful room I had ever been in.  I wish I'd had a camera.  She took me on a tour of her home and she'd pick up a crystal bowl that you'd swear cost a couple grand and she'd tell me, to my utter amazement, that she'd picked it up for forty bucks at a garage sale.  There were dozens of similar examples.  A signed work of art by a known artist that she'd gotten for fifty dollars at another sale; a five-foot tall statue that had come from a building in Pakistan which was being demolished that wound up costing her a hundred bucks.  Every piece of furniture, every piece of art was something she'd found at an estate sale for pennies on the dollar that one would expect to pay at retail.  The woman has a remarkable eye for beauty, and an ability to find value that is amazing.

Later, we sat around and ate cheesecake and drank coffee and I did what I did best.  I made people laugh.  Sad as everyone was, I was able to make people laugh.  I hope Beth wasn't offended, and I don't think she would have been.  When we got home and I was talking about it with Laura, I told her that when I die, I want people laughing at my funeral.  In fact, I suggested to her that they prop me up on my couch in front of my TV set with my middle finger raised skyward and when mourners asked just what the hell was going on, she could answer, "Dad's flipping off the Lions, again." 

And now a few words about Beth.  The apt analogy for our relationship, that which describes it best, would be that of a mother who does not approve of her daughter's boyfriend.  Over time I came to appreciate that this was just a case of Beth looking out for her friend. 

I know Beth appreciated the fact that I made Jeannie happy when I made her my wife.  That I made her happy, hell, that I made her life complete, when I made her a mother, limited (necessarily) as my participation in that particular process was.

I can honesty say, and say to my regret, that Beth worked harder on making our relationship work than I did.  Perhaps it is that regret which will help me do better when it comes to dealing with others in the future.  It is a bit of wisdom I have tonight that I didn’t have yesterday and it’s just too bad that all it took for me to acquire it was Beth’s death. The lesson here is that learning life’s lessons is hard; that wisdom is indeed hard-won. 

Sleep tight, Elizabeth Gail Frumpkin.