On this day 48 years ago, we buried my father. It was a bitterly cold, windy day, I recall, and I know there were many people present. I know there was a processional, there was music and a sermon, my dad was in a casket at the front of the church, and there was lunch after. But I don't really remember any of that.
I have one overriding memory of that day, having nothing to do with my dad or the reason we were there - I had a hole in a my nylons, and I could not stop messing with it. What started as a tiny finger sized hole, stopped from running with clear fingernail polish, by the end of the day was a run from the waist to my toe. I picked and pulled and prodded and messed with that hole through the early visitation, the service and the lunch after. The only time I wasn't messing with the hole in my nylons was at the graveside, where it was simply too cold to do anything but stand and shiver as we quickly did what had to be done so we could get back inside.
