Finally, a funeral

Funeral for William Douthwaite, Jr.
St. Mark’s Lutheran Church, Ridley Park, PA

We had been getting ready for this funeral for three years. That’s how long it had been since my Dad fell, his kidneys failed, and my brother, sister and I gathered to say goodbye to him at age 92. By the time I got there, though, he had rebounded and returned home after a few days in the hospital. Rather than a funeral, we started making arrangements for assisted living.

Two years ago, still in the memory care unit of a very nice assisted living facility, Dad stopped eating. Rather than another trip to the hospital to find out what was wrong, we admitted Dad into hospice so he could stay where he was. Once again, we gathered for what we thought would be the end of his ninety-three year earthly journey. However, his appetite soon returned, especially for ice cream and other desserts, and we did not need to make any arrangements.

This summer, after about three days into the Dallas portion of my vacation, I got the call that Dad had a fever that wouldn’t break, and was less and less lucid each day. The hospice nurse predicted he would only last a few days, if not a few hours. I quickly booked a flight as my sister boarded a train, and we once again gathered to be with Dad.

This time was indeed different. Dad was on oxygen, was not responsive, and indeed looked like he was at the end. My sister and I spend three days there, watching and listening to his rhythmic breathing. We read to him, sang some hymns, and agreed that even though this might be the end, we would never bet against Dad recovering.

At the age of ninety-five, though, his body just couldn’t fight the infection. No eating or drinking for days took its toll on his strength. But not till he stuck around for another six days. I had returned to Dallas and then home. My sister had gone home and returned over the weekend.

The call from my brother came early Monday morning, August 12. We had gotten home late, so we didn’t hear the phone buzz the first ten times. Finally, I heard something about 4 am, and my brother confirmed that Dad had died shortly after two, with him, my sister and sister-in-law holding his hand. Calm, peaceful, and pain-free, accompanied by families on this side and angels on the other. Not a bad way to go at all.

Over the next few days, my brother made arrangements for the funeral that had long ago been planned for Dad’s long time church in Ridley Park, PA and internment next to Mom at a cemetery in Aston. I booked flights for my wife and I, my son, and one of my daughters who brought her youngest along.

That Friday (August 16), a few family, friends and church members gathered to worship, remember Dad’s life, and look forward to the resurrection. My son, a pastor from Dallas, my brother, a pastor from Vienna, VA and myself co-officiated the service and all took a turn preaching. My sister played the organ and my nieces played violin. It was a unique and fitting moment for a man whose quiet faithfulness had left a legacy of three pastors (so far), and three generation of faithful children, spouses, grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

When you live to be ninety-five, you outlive most of your family and friends. Dad was the youngest of seven children. His last remaining sibling had died some fifteen years before. Five of my cousins who were still in the area joined us that day. About half-a-dozen members of the church who had known Dad were still around and attended the service. A few folks from my brother’s church and some area clergy friends also attended.

While neither my brother nor I wanted to preach at my Mom’s funeral fourteen years ago, we both wanted to speak for Dad’s. I didn’t know how I would feel. You never really do, until you’re in the moment. My voice cracked just once, when I spoke of Dad, along with us, waiting for “that day, for that voice, for that trumpet and for the resurrection!” (1 Thessalonians 4:16). My brother Jim spoke on Dad’s favorite verse from Romans 8, that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love in Jesus Christ. My son Adam reminded us that even though our hearts and minds are filled with great memories, the best is yet to come when we get to be with the Lord.

My brother and I draped Dad’s casket with the funeral pall as my son reminded us of Dad’s baptism. We took turns reading scripture. Isaiah 55:6-13; Philippians 1:18-26; Romans 8:26-39; Matthew 28:1-10. We preached around some great hymns. “For all the saints,” “The Lord’s my shepherd I’ll not want,” “My hope is built on nothing less,” “I know that my Redeemer lives,” and “Jesus lives, the vict’ry’s won.” It sounds like a lot, but only lasted a little more than an hour.

The procession to the cemetery had to navigate some interesting interstate traffic, but we all made it. After a brief committal and military honors, many of us gathered at a nearby restaurant for lunch, memories, laughter and a few pictures.

I had to get my son back to the airport for an evening flight home. My brother’s family, my sister and my family then hung out at our hotel suite that evening. That night was much more relaxed.

And just like that, it was over. Everyone returned home safely the next day.

I’m still trying to figure out how I feel. I don’t feel sad, but I know I’ll miss Dad. Our recent visits weren’t much. It’s not like I’ll miss our conversations. He typically sat and snoozed while I sat and visited with him. I’m a bit relieved. I didn’t get up there to visit him very often, and I always felt a little guilt about that. My brother, on the other hand, was there every day. This will leave a bigger void for him. We didn’t shed that many tears. Smiles and laughter predominated those last few days and the funeral service. Dad always made us laugh before, so why not now?

Most of all I’m just thankful. I’m thankful for what he taught me, for my memories of him, and for the faith he and Mom passed along to us kids.

Working concessions in Phila.

vet16_top

My view for each game for most of the games I worked at the Vet.

It wasn’t my first job. (My first job was church janitor.) It wasn’t my best job. (I kind of like preaching.) But it was a cool job: concessions at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia.

One of the perks of being a Douthwaite in South Phila? My uncle Jack Nilon had the concessions at Veteran’s Stadium, home of the Phillies and Eagles in the early 1970’s when I was in high school and college. My Aunt Catharine, whom we called “Aunt Smim,” pretty much ran the place and made sure I had a job there every summer through late high school and college. She also made sure I got to work one of the best concessions stands, right behind home plate on a level where I could watch most of the games. If we were busy, I could at least see the scoreboards and know what was going on. Those were good years for the Phils, who hosted the All Star game in 1976 and won the World Series in 1980. (Names from that year: Mike Schimdt, Steve Carlson, Tug McGraw, Bob Boone, Greg Luzinski, Gary Maddox, Pete Rose, Larry Bowa.)

I worked as a cashier, standing at a register just outside the booth where a host of other workers boiled and “bunned” the hot dogs, wrapped up hamburgers, and poured drinks. These were the days before some of the upscale food you pay big bucks for at professional sports complexes. Some games were really busy; others I spent most of my time watching the game.

Even though more than forty years have passed, I still have vivid memories of these days:

  • A gentleman carrying a cardboard tray with six beers ($6 each back then) set them down on a fold out table to pay. The table collapsed, dowsing his pants with all that beer! It was impossible for us not to laugh, so we (we always had two cashiers outside each stand) got in big trouble because we did.
  • Before the stand opened each night, I would help wrap hot dogs to stay ahead of the initial lines when the gates opened. Yes, we would deliberately wrap up empty buns, just to see the reaction when people went to put mustard or ketchup on their hot dog. At least it was funny back then.
  • We got to eat whatever we wanted. The problem was, once you had a hot dog, some chips and a soda, you didn’t want all that much. Hey, keep in mind, this was the 70’s. They didn’t wear gloves to handle food. I couldn’t tell you how often new water was put in the hot dog boilers. Bones in a hamburger? Hey, I’m just the cashier.
  • It was cool to be there for the All Star game as the nation celebrated the bicentennial in 1976. It as really cool to go to one of the World Series games in 1980. (I think I went to game 2.) I didn’t work any of the games, but I used my ID to get in and watch one of the games against the Kansas City Royals.
  • I got to work a few other events during that time. I worked a few Eagles games when I was home from college. I also got to work a few Army-Navy games when they played at JFK Stadium. Boy that was an old dump of a stadium. You got into some of the concession stands by crawling through a hole in the wall to unlock the door from the inside. In the late 70’s, I think I worked a few Peter Frampton concerts there, too. One occasion, I was summoned from the concession and taken to an office because there was some kind of threat against my uncle. I don’t remember how that all turned out, but obviously, everything turned out OK.
  • My Uncle Jack always had a bottle of Mylanta on his desk. Apparently, it was a stressful business. He took frequent sips from it. Yuk.
  • Some of my friends also got jobs working concessions. On one occasion, as my Uncle Jack commented on his sizable schnoz to one of my friends, he said, “How’d you like to have this nose full of nickels?”
  • I got in big trouble one summer. The Phils didn’t win the World Series every year, so some years, attendance was low and business was slow. One game, my cashier partner and I were taking turns bouncing a rubber ball against a wall and catching it. One of us missed a catch and it bounced past a customer who complained to someone. We got called onto the carpet, were chewed out, and then had to work a concession stand out in centerfield for a few weeks. Lesson learned. We didn’t do that anymore.

When I applied for a job at Subway in Ft. Wayne, during my seminary days, I think I put my concession – “food service” – experience on my application. I got the job. And it got me through seminary. Thanks, Uncle Jack.!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grandpa Douthwaite

Me with pop and grannyOne of my favorite (but not too difficult) trivia questions to ask those who know me as William Douthwaite III is, “What is my grandfather’s name?” Without too much thought you should be able to come up with “William” as the correct answer.

My only memory of William Douthwaite, Sr. (whom my dad called “Pop,” and who died in 1959), is seeing him in bed at his Ridley Park apartment, with a glass straw in his drink. I’ve never seen a glass straw since, although I know they are available. If this is a reliable memory, it is my earliest, since I was at best two years old.

William, Sr. was a carpenter. My dad kept some of his tools in a homemade toolbox for years. My grandfather had seven children, of whom my father, William, Jr., was the youngest. And that is about all the information I have about him.

I believe this picture is my baptism day, September 29, 1957, one of the few when all my grandparents were together at the same time. He would have been 80 years old in this picture. I have not found any other pictures of me with William, Sr.

My friend Richard, who did a little ancestry work for me has been able to trace the Douthwaite name to Richard Douthwaite who was born in 1580 in Warcop, Lancanshire, England. Before that, the records are spotty and uncertain.