Ricky, my parents’ enthusiastic gravedigger. © 2024 Craig Dahlberg
As I turned into the military cemetery, I was happy to know that Wes Dahlberg, my dad, and my mother, Dee, would finally rest together.
Their cremated remains sat side-by-side in my car’s back seat. Dad’s brass and mother- of-pearl cremation urn gleamed like a new sculpture. My mother’s identical urn showed nine years of tarnish as it awaited my father’s remains. All was now ready for their burials.
Inside the glass welcoming room, the muted military décor celebrated the service of those buried here. The receptionist sported an irreverent shock of fluorescent pink hair, a comedic contrast against drab military hues and the respectful displays of flags and military insignia.
He ushered me into the next room to complete the burial forms. “Is there anything I can do for you? Water? Soda? A candy bar? Goodness, I’m sorry for the long delay! You’ve been so understanding! You’ve made my day!”
Suddenly, I heard two familiar, though dead, voices. Like the cemetery voices in Thornton Wilder’s play (and movie), Our Town.
First, I heard my dad say: “Wow! Look at that hair! A beautiful shade, but perhaps it needs a bit more purple!” Dad loved extravagance and color.
Then, Mother’s voice: “Oh! How wonderful! We’ve made his day! And he is so patient and so kind to us! Let’s thank the Lord for him. Who wants to pray?” Dee Dahlberg always saw the best in everyone.
Before any of us could entreat the Lord’s blessing, Kyle, the attendant, walked in from his tidy office, dressed in suit and tie, administrative duties in hand. Kyle’s Louisiana accent graced his instructions.
As we chatted about his Louisiana roots after the service, Kyle admitted they could not even consider buying a home in California. Maybe he should have stayed in the South, he pondered aloud. We could see it had been a tough slog.
“Poor man!” exclaimed Mother. “With a family to raise! Let’s give him a little offering!”
“Louisiana,” Dad chimed in. “What a place! The architecture is just … odd. Half French, half Southern Colonial, and half … who knows what! I’m glad we’re being buried in California!”
Finally, at the burial site, the gravedigger met us. Ricky, a grinning, enthusiastic, and energetic man, seemed unbowed by his somber responsibilities.
“I love my job!” Ricky said. Even after digging war veterans’ graves for most of his life, he still loved it. “These are war veterans, and I’m the last person who gets to honor our heroes.”
Upon discovering Dad was 106 years old, he stood erect. His face morphed from joyous to resolute.
“A hundred and six years old? I never buried nobody that old! No, sir! Wow, what a life! What an honor!”
He gently placed Mom and Dad’s urns into plastic bags, and then into the holes we watched him dig. Then he invited me to take a photograph.
“The headstones will be dug into the soil exactly 26 inches deep,” Ricky explained. They’ll arrive in a couple of months.”
“Hey,” Dad piped up, “What’s going to be inscribed on my headstone?” Ever the lifelong artist, we had expected his curiosity and wanted to please him.
I answered, “He Discovered God’s Beauty in All Things.”
“I love that,” he choked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
“What about mine?” Mother asked.
“Yours will say, ‘Loved God, Loved Others, Finished the Race.’”
“I did, you know! I really did love everyone. I sure tried to!”
“I know, Mom,” I assured her. “You did a great job.”
“One more thing,” she added. “Before you leave, could you place some Gospel tracts around the headstones of our new neighbors? We want them to know we’re all in this together.”