On Being a Piper...

A number of years ago, I received a telephone call from an elderly woman who told me at the outset of the conversation that she lived in Florida.

"I called so-and-so to ask him if he could play the bagpipes at my brother's funeral, but he couldn't do it on that day. He gave me your number and told me to call you. He thought that you might be able to do it..", she began.

"I imagine there must be pipers in Florida who would be more conveniently located, ma'am..."

"No, no... I need a piper in New York. My brother lived up there. He died yesterday, and he had always loved bagpipes and had mentioned that he wanted a piper to play at his funeral. I'll pay you...??"

I asked her where and when the funeral would be, checked my calendar, and confirmed that I had nothing planned on the date (the following Saturday, this being a Thursday...) that would conflict or otherwise prevent me from being able to do the job. The cemetery was less than five miles from my house, so, clearly, I was probably the man for the job.

"Who should I contact before the funeral, ma'am?? Will you be flying up here??"

"Oh, no... I'm disabled. I'm not able to travel. I'm afraid that all of our other family has passed on. I'm the last. Nobody will be attending, I fear..."

I was silent for a few awkward moments while my brain contended with this new tidbit of information. Then..

"I'll be happy to play at your brother's funeral, ma'am. Can you tell me his name, the exact time, and whatever else I will need to know?? Did he like any particular tunes??"

She told me the time of the funeral, and the plot number. For some reason, there wasn't going to be a priest or anyone there to see this guy off... I don't know what the story was... but it struck me as being somewhat strange... and very, very sad.

"Can I have your mailing address, young man? I'd like to send you something in payment on my brother's behalf."

"Um.. ma'am.. you don't have to send anything. Its no trouble. I'll play for your brother. No charge. I'm happy to do it. Don't worry about it."

"Oh.. well, that's very nice. But, could I have your address, just the same.. I'd like to send you a thank you card then."

I gave her my mailing address, and after assuring her that I would be there, on time, and that I would play a few tunes and do the best job that I was capable of doing, hung up the phone.

The day of the funeral was grey, with a fine misty drizzle falling. I donned my kilt and drove to the cemetery. After checking in at the main office, and getting directions to the gravesite, I drove over to the area, parked, and tuned up my bagpipes. After locking up the car, I walked over towards the grave.

The casket was already on the lowering belts. There was astro-turf laid down around the grave, which contrasted rather starkly with the reddish-brown dirt that had been so recently dug up to make room for the new addition.. Three hispanic workers were the only other people there. They were sitting on a berm that had been formed by the dirt that they had excavated when digging the grave. There was one small flower arrangement, looking somewhat droopy as a result of the falling rain, I suppose, which was odd, considering that they were flowers and should have liked the bloody rain... Someone had carelessly kicked dirt onto them, and they looked kind of straggly.

The three workers had, apparently, just finished eating their lunch; there were some wrappers and crap piled at the base of the berm between the feet of one of the men, as well as two empty bottles of some sort of malt drink made by Goya. The third bottle was in the hand of one of the workers, and he took a long pull from the bottle, finishing it, and placed it on the ground with the others. The three of them had never seen anyone in Highland attire, I gather, by the way they looked at me. The hint of a smirk on each of their faces. They sat there, looking at me, somewhat bemused by the whole thing, and I stood there, looking down at the casket.

"I'm here to play for him. Should I begin now??", I asked them.. not sure of whether I should get right to it, or what to do...

"No comprendo... no Ingles."

"Is anybody else supposed to be coming, do you know??"

They discussed this between themselves for a moment, then.. having determined that not a one of them had the slightest clue what I was on about, shook their heads and shrugged.

I considered that, then, feeling that there was no time like the present, filled the bag with breath, struck in the drones, and began to play.

As I played, the three of them stared at me with unmasked astonishment.. whether at the sound of the pipes, the sight of me, a combination of both, or at something else entirely, I have no idea...

After a few moments, one of the men murmered something to the other two, and they all stood up, dusted the worst of the dirt from themselves, and one of them quickly produced a plastic garbage bag from a pocket and deposited the trash into it, bottles and all. (I was unaccountably relieved by this, having been somewhat bothered by the thought that they might have tossed that stuff into the grave with our man when filling it in.) He twisted the neck of the bag, tied a quick knot to close the bag, and, still holding the bag, assumed an appropriately solemn position for a gravesite; feet together, hands folded in front, heads slightly bowed. The other two followed suit. The first guy gave his companions a quick once over, reached up and removed his co-workers hat and handed it to him, then, satisfied with the result, re-assumed his earlier position.

The three of them stood there, respectfully and quietly. Our host lay in his casket, silent and unmoving, waiting to be interred in his grave for the remainder of time.. I could feel him there, though, listening and watching, and I played my bagpipes for him. I never knew him in life, and I didn't have to to know that this was important to him. So I played for all that I was worth. Usually the pipes are played at a funeral to stir the emotions of the living, to force them to cry or to otherwise emote, so that they can get back to the business of living without carrying more than their share of grief and sadness. But this was different. This wasn't for the living. I was playing for the dead.

After a few moments, the apparent leader of the group of workers stepped forward, and, with the toe of his boot, depressed the catch on the belt winch, and the casket began to slowly descend into the earth.

The rain fell on all of us in equal measure, plastering hair to faces, chilling us, and dampening our spirits. It was a perfect day for a funeral.

I finished the set, started another and nodding farewell to the three other living gentlemen, I turned and slowly walked away towards my vehicle, negotiating a path between the headstones as I played.

Epilogue:

Over the years, when I have told this story to others, I would sometimes be asked a very odd question; "Why did you go? You could have just stayed home and nobody would have been the wiser!"

Honestly, it never once crossed my mind to not go. It seems to me that a final request is just something that one honors. It is something that we do for one another. You don't just not go. It isn't done. Period.

A couple of days after the funeral, the mailman delivered an envelope with a thank you card, unsigned, containing two crisp new $100 bills. There was no return address.

I went to the florist and bought a two hundred dollar flower arrangement and drove back to the cemetery, where I placed it in on the man's grave. There were no workers present that time, and the day was bright and sunny and beautiful. Birds were singing, and clouds were floating past overhead. It occurred to me that this man would never enjoy another day like this, at least not in this life. I'm not completely clear in my mind whether I put those flowers on his grave for him, or for me... whichever it is, I still feel that it needed to be done for some reason...

I have never told this part of the story to anyone before now. Only he and I ever knew... and now you know, too.