Funeral Procession

I just found myself in the the midst of a very long funeral procession, following a hearse from the big Baptist Church in town, up over the mountain to one of many small, rural cemeteries that dot the landscape.

The thing is I was in the procession by mistake.

I went into town to find a new spark plug for my old lawnmower. I was unsuccessful. I decided to drop into Save Easy for some milk and then crossed the road to pick up some fresh bread at the Mennonite bakery. This is the place to buy real homemade ice cream. It is foolish to buy it by the tub, as I wear out the freezer opening the door for a little bit and then a little bit more, until it is all gone. My solution is to buy a cone every week or two to satiate my hankerings, in a more mature way.

This weekend is Apple Blossom Weekend, in the Annapolis Valley, so traffic is a little more busy than usual. I took a back residential street, through town, and waited to get onto the main road just below the Baptist Church.

A woman kindly made a place to let me in. This is not unusual as Nova Scotian drivers are notoriously polite. I turned left into the traffic and found myself in a slow cortege, eating my enormous ice cream cone. There was no place to turn off.

It used to be the funeral processions could be recognized not only by the hearse, I had missed, as the lead car; but by car lights turned on at dim. By law now, all car lights must be on all day to help reduce accidents. So there I was going slowly along in my dirty car, eating an ice cream, that was quickly beginning to melt.

The police stopped all traffic from breaking our ranks, waving us on through stop signs. Traffic coming from the other direction pulled off to the side of road, out of respect. I knew I could discreetly leave the funeral cars when they turned off the pavement towards a valley cemetery. There are not many burials up on the mountain. This was one of them.

Up the steep Oxbow, we slowly proceeded. I tried to find something to put my melting ice cream cone in with no success.

Then, I knew where the burial would be and whose body was being buried. A young woman who had grown up in a nearby community, had returned home, with her husband and little girl, to die.

Finally all the cars turned left onto a gravel road that led to a well kept community cemetery. I carried on to the sea.

Travelling mercies.