The thoughts of a little girl

Too Young to Sing a Dirge

by Karen Parrish Norskog

I had looked forward to my seventh birthday because birthdays in our white frame farmhouse were always happy times.

Whenever it was a family member’s birthday, we would hurry to the house as soon as the evening chores were done. We would then eat supper, light the candles on the cake turn out the lights and sing “Happy Birthday.” We always made a wish before we blew out the candles, and if we blew them all out on the first attempt, our wish would come true. Then the lights were turned back on and the birthday presents were opened.

My birthday had finally come, but everyone seemed to have forgotten it this year. A neighbor lady made a birthday cake for me, but I did not think it was very pretty and it did not even have candles on it. No one seemed interested in eating it anyway.

It must be my birthday, though, because my mother asked me to come into the bedroom so she could give me something. As I sat on the bed, Mom went to the big bedroom closet where she always hid the presents that we kids were not supposed to find. She reached up on the closet shelf and took down a miniature shiny gold-colored horse – just the kind I had been wanting. As she handed the horse to me, she said: “your father bought this last week. He was eager to give it to you because he knew it was just what you wanted.”

Then she turned away from me. Mother always hid her emotions, and I knew she did not want me to see the tears in her eyes.

Although I loved my golden horse, I did not feel like playing with it; I knew that even if I had felt like playing with it that I should not play today.

Everything had changed in the past two days since Dad fell dead while pitching hay to the cows. Mom never said he was “dead” though, she always said he had “passed away.” I was not sure what that meant, but I knew that it was the right thing to say.

There had been much activity in our house although everyone was unusually quiet. My three older sisters came home from college – they and some of their friends were busy cleaning the house. Men came to our farm with their farming equipment to help get the manure spread in the fields so the crops could be planted on time, to assist my teenaged brothers who would be doing the farm work. Women brought dishes of food into the house, crying a little before they left.

No one paid much attention to me. Some people would pat me on the head and say something strange, but I seemed to make them feel uncomfortable. Nearly everyone left me alone and ignored any questions that I asked. Soon I stopped asking any.

There was even more confusion in our house the day of the funeral. The living room was filled with “smelly” flowers that made my stomach hurt. But I guessed they probably had to be there because there was a funny-looking box called a casket at one end of the living room. The casket fascinated, and at the same time, frightened me. I felt no kinship to the man lying so pale and still inside the big box.

Soon my aunts, uncles, cousins, and other people I did not know came to look at “Dick.” Most of them would hug my mother and then go look at the pale man. Some just stood and stared. Others fought tears. Some sobbed. Aunt Lois was one who sobbed. I watched her for awhile because there was not much else I could do.

Mom took me for a last look at my father. Most of the people moved to the other end of the room as we approached the casket. I did not know what to say, but Mom talked some. She talked about leaving his wallet in his pocket where he always kept it, his pocket watch in a pocket, and the wedding ring on his finger. But his eyes fascinated me most. I asked Mom what would happen if we pulled his eyelids back. I forgot what she replied because I felt ashamed as soon as I realized what I had said. (My brother-in-law Steve stepped in to resolve the uncomfortable situation and carried me away to distract me).

Later I was lost among the crowd again. My attention was directed to voices with some laughter coming from a downstairs bedroom. I found that there were sandwiches for people if they became hungry. I was surprised when I found out who the laughing people were, because these same people had cried when they upstairs in the living room just a little earlier.

I went back upstairs to see what was happening now. The casket had been moved by the door and people were lined up to tell the man in the casket good-by – some kissed him. My cousin Peggy, who was a few years older than I, kissed ‘Uncle Dick.” My mother patted Peggy on her back and told her she was a good girl. Peggy beamed. I envied the attention that she was getting, but I sulked back from the casket. I was not going to kiss him. That man in the casket was not really Dad: the man in the casket was cold and pale and not at all like Dad, even though he looked like my Dad.

My Dad was warm and kind. He would hold me on his knees and tell me what he used to do when he was a “little girl.” I believed everything he told me – even the part about his being a little girl. He would let me lie in bed with him and he would read the “funnies” in the Sunday newspaper to me. Later when I had mastered my first reading book, he would patiently listen to me read and re-read it to him and he would act as though he thought the stories were truly fascinating. My Dad would play cards and checkers with me until sometimes he would be late starting the chores because we were involved playing a card game called “Casino,” – even though Dad always liked to be punctual about doing the farm work.

My Dad was tall and thin with dark wavy hair except where there was not any hair in the middle of his head. I used to sneak quietly behind him as he sat reading a magazine in an easy chair, just so I could stare at his shiny bald spot.

Dad had a proud walk, so I thought nothing was unusual about his limp and that he always walked using a cane. I had often heard how his leg was severely injured when a train hit the car he and his brother Alf were in at a blind intersection in Utah. His brother died instantly and Dad had a prolonged recovery in a Salt Lake City Utah.

The story did not mean much to me, but his cane remained hanging in the same spot in the dairy barn after he “passed away.” No, that man in the casket was not really my Dad so I did not kiss him.

The casket was then carried outside to be put into a big black car. The remaining family rode in a car behind the big, black car on this rainy, cold March day. The rest of the people followed us in their own cars. Usually when our family went somewhere together we would sing. But this was a different kind of ride today. I knew we must not sing.

The funeral caravan drove five miles to the high school building and we all went in. The gymnasium was packed full of people sitting on metal folding chairs. When we went in, I could see both the familiar casket as well as all the “smelly” flowers that had been at our house sitting on the gymnasium stage. Several men were on the stage. They said strange things. I did not understand what they said too well except when a man named each of us seven kids’ names when he was telling all about Dad. I felt proud that all these people heard our names, but when I looked up at my sister and smiled, I knew from the look on her face, that I should not smile.

I was glad when the men stopped talking and we went back to the car. When we stopped again we were at a big green lawn with funny-looking stones lying all over. At one lonely corner everyone gathered by a deep hole in the ground. The ugly cold casket was soon lowered down. I felt a sickening sensation in my stomach as the hole was covered with more “smelly” flowers, although they did not smell as bad in the rain as they had in our living room.

I was relieved to get home again. It seemed strange to have the house empty after there had been so many people around for the past few days.

Now everyone was gone. Mom must be in the bedroom because the door was shut. I knew I should not go to see if she was there. I wondered where my brothers and sisters were. They were gone, too. So was my Dad. He was a different kind of gone, though. He would never be back. I knew that now because I was alone. I looked out the living room window and saw that the rain had stopped and the sun was trying to shine. But it did not make me feel any better. I tried not to cry, but I missed my Dad terribly. I wanted to do something to bring him back. I had heard about a God up above so I wrote on a tiny piece of paper, “Give me back my Dad.”

I made sure no one was looking as I slipped outside.

Then I threw the paper into the air. I fully expected God to seize it up in a gust of wind to take it to Heaven so that He could read it. Instead, the little scrap of paper fluttered back to earth and lit upon the wet grass. I tore the message into tiny shreds so that no one could read it and “make fun” of me later. I could no longer hold back the tears.

Sixty-four birthdays later, my seventh birthday remains my most memorable, though it seems that being born on the Ides of March carries a subtle darkness with it that does not diminish with time.

However, from the vantage point of someone facing my seventy-second birthday, I realize how lucky I am to have had many more birthdays after the seventh and I feel blessed to be able to be here to participate in this ever-expanding and exciting family.