The first car drove by with headlights on. Then several more vehicles. Low beams blaring. It was sundown. My cousin and I were parked at a stoplight when the funeral procession passed.
The cops came first. Light bars flashing blue. Then, the Cadillac hearse, moving at an easy speed. All white. Ornamental S-shaped metallic bar on the rear quarter panel of the car. Windows tinted with roofing tar.
The procession behind the lead vehicle moved along lazily across the nondescript Birmingham intersection.
It was a cold day. Gray sky. Tinted with the colors of sunset. Central Alabama had just succumbed to one of its rare snows. There was black ice on the ground. Flurries in the air.
The cars passed us one by one. It was a long train. Longer than usual.
There were makes and models of all kinds. Nissan Altimas and Land Rover Autographs. Lexuses and old Chevy Impalas. Each one, with headlights on.
My cousin and I stepped out of the car and stood at attention. Because this is just what we do.
And I was remembering what it felt like to sit in that lead car.
A lifetime ago, when I was a boy, I sat in the head car of one such procession. My mother, my sister, and I were in the foremost Lincoln. Our vehicle moved across town at a dirge-like pace, and nobody inside our vehicle was speaking.
My mother’s face was puffy and swollen. My kid sister was staring out the window, face pressed against the glass. I was in shellshock. My father was gone.
There were 50 cars behind ours, maybe more, with headlights on. This moved me. We approached a hill. At our stern, I could see the acre of vehicles following us. A chain of headlamps, backing up to the horizon.
But what touched me most were the random motorists who had pulled over to let us pass.
A man in a Dodge Ram pulled aside, got out of his vehicle, and stood outside his car. Head bowed. He was dressed in a work uniform. One of those blue work shirts with a name patch embroidered on the chest.
A young woman, standing outside her car. She was tall and lean. Business casual She stood idly by as our train of vehicles crept along.
An old guy in a work truck pulled over. A young family in a Tarus. And there were more.
And it was the first time I cried, really cried, since my old man took his own life. Sometimes it takes days for the tears to hit. They don’t come all at once. The tears come by degrees. I can’t explain why this is.
But the saltwater flowed freely that afternoon. Not because my loved one was dead. Not because this was the ceremony. But because these people, these perfect strangers, acknowledged that a man lived.
I never forgot it. I never will. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t replay that traffic tableau in my head. I can’t unsee it. And I don’t want to.
Because this is just what we do.
6 comments
Linda Everett, longtime Sean of the South fan. - January 18, 2024 3:33 am
A beautiful blog today Sean. I cannot imagine the pain you and your family experienced when your Dad decided to take his life, leaving a scared tearful boy, unsure of what would happen next. It is beyond sad for your family, your Mom, you and your sister, left behind, not understanding what could have driven your Dad to take such a drastic action. He loved his family, but he was unable to go on. My family lost a very good man, recently , he suddenly began spiraling, withdrawing from his former, good natured personality. What causes this sudden change in someone? I do not think anyone knows what happens when someone who loves his family, spirals downward, losing all hope that their life will ever be normal again.it is sad. All I know for sure, is your Dad loved his family. God bless you Sean Dietrich!
You new book was everything I thought it would be. You did a great job and I am a better person having read it.
Linda Everett - January 18, 2024 3:35 am
Your new book, kinfolk, was all I thought it would be, very well written and very good.
DAVID SWANNER - January 18, 2024 4:16 am
It was almost 58 years ago when I was a pallbearer the first time. My Mothers baby brother passed away. The little baptist church in rural Louisiana would only hold abou 90 people, but somehow over 200 packed in. The procession was over two miles long and I will never forget how slow it was. There was on outsider “yankee” who could not go so slow, he kept passing cars in the procession until he got to the hearse. The sheriff wouldn’t let him pass untill we got to Black lake. Well he went for a swim. There’s just something about a funeral in the south that one has to respect. Thanks for bringing back that memory. David
Mark Bush - January 18, 2024 3:10 pm
I was 12 when my dad died of a heart attack while out of town on a business trip. I remember his best friend and our minister coming to the Jr High School to pick me up and explaining why. I remember the constant flow of casseroles and people visiting the house, more people than had ever been on our house at one time. I remember the viewing at White Chapel funeral home in Montgomery, the service the next day, and then the procession from there to Greenwood Cemetery with the motorcycle cops running traffic interference and all the folks who pulled over out of respect. Yeah, I just relived that in my mind. As you said, an experience I’ll take to my own grave. Now, I do the same every single time. It’s what we do. Thanks for the memories.
David in California - January 18, 2024 4:33 pm
I remember the first time I saw a funeral processional. My grandpa stopped the car and pulled over. We waited until the long line of cars passed. Thinking it must have been for someone famous, I asked Grandpa who the person was and was surprised when he answered that he did not know. So many lessons in that small gesture.
Cate - January 18, 2024 6:49 pm
My father died when I was nine years old. He was 46. He died from cancer. I too remember being in the funeral home for two days and nights. Then the funeral on the third day. I am now 86 and those days are seared into my mind. I was in the front car after the hearse with only my mother. The funeral procession went on and on. This was in Chicago. People stood on the sidewalks and men removed their hats. Cars moved to the right to let us pass. But this was a different time. 1946 to be exact. I think people were more respectful then, more polite.