Swiped this off Facebook because it
reminded me of my late father.
My maternal grandfather died in
Cottonwood, AZ. The family wanted him buried in Walden, CO. My father borrowed
a station wagon/hearse from the Mortuary in Steamboat Springs, CO. This was not
the formal hearse but a utility vehicle. After loading an empty coffin he
headed to Cottonwood.
Enroute the alternator failed and he had
to stop in Kayenta Springs, AZ.No alternator was available and had to come from
Tuba City, AZ. Since he had to wait, he
slid the coffin to one side, laid down, and caught some sleep.
Kayenta Springs is a Navajo town, and a
tough town at that. This was prior to the coal mines and power plants. Navajos have strong beliefs about death and
dead people, as in they want nothing to do with them or anyone associated with
them. Not dissing their beliefs but situations can become awkward. The
alternator finally arrived but the repair place employees wouldn’t come near the station wagon
or my father. Finally, with the intervention of tribal police (who also kept their
distance) the staff put the
alternator and some tools where my father could reach them. He promptly
made the necessary repair. There was more awkwardness as he returned the tools
and paid for the alternator but he was soon on his way.
I’m sure the situation was helped by my
father’s people skills and that he could get by in their language. He had a
gift for languages and had Navajo work gangs while he was with the Denver & Rio Grande Railroad. He was by no means fluent but had enough to communicate.
At Cottonwood, the remains were placed in
the coffin and my father, mother, and her oldest sister made the drive back to
Steamboat Springs.
My sister and I are descendants of a long
line of hard nosed, practical people. We
learned most things are nothing more than a job of work. Some jobs are damned
unpleasant, to be sure, but they nothing more than a job that needs to be done.
So, in the words of Larry the Cable Guy, “Git’er done”.
