This morning, I am getting dressed for a funeral service at a Catholic Church.  Joe, the deceased, was a good man I worked with in a public defender’s office for many years.  We both retired a few years ago, but he was also a neighbor, and we would run into each other from time to time.  He was a great story teller.  He used to tell our clients, “you have to learn to tell stories before you start telling lies.”

              Yes, defendants lie, even to their own lawyers.

              You are here reading this on my “author’s website/blog”, so you must know I am in the throws of writing my first novel, “Route 6 Baby.” The story takes place over two timelines, 1953 and 2023, traveling east to west following US 6.  US 6 is not Route 66, let’s just get that confusion out of the way at the git go.  Route 66 travels from Chicago to LA; US 6 travels from Cape Cod in Massachusetts to Bishop, CA, on the east side of the Sierras, although at one time it continued all the way to Long Beach.

              What I only just learned, from reading my colleague’s obituary, is that as a young person, his family moved from Massachusetts to Southern California, in 1952.  1952!!!! His family very likely travelled along US 6 for at least part if not all of that journey.  What a resource he would have been!  If I had only known.

              But today’s Musing and Meandering is titled Funeral Etiquette, not Regrets about the Dead.

              I was trying to decide what to wear this morning.  I’m not part of the family, not in mourning, so all black is not suitable, although somber is the right tone. I am reminded of struggling with what to wear to my own father’s funeral service. My mother had passed years earlier.  When my father died, I was still working, and as a trial lawyer, what I wore daily almost without fail was a black suit.  I owned seven of them.  I did not want to wear a black suit to my Dad’s funeral because the occasion called for something more significant than my daily working attire.

              The night before his service, mom came to me in a dream.  Mom was a very proper Episcopalian lady who knew how to write a proper thank you note, how to set a table for a formal occasion, and what to wear to a funeral.  In my dream, she told me my deep purple silk pants and blouse would be just fine.

              Thank you, mom.

              She never met Joe, so she can’t really help me today.  Joe and I did work together, so maybe a black suit would be OK.  But I have chosen instead black jeans (this is Humboldt County, after all, and I won’t be the only person wearing jeans) with a navy blue and black blouse.

              Then there’s the question of Communion.  I was taught growing up that Episcopalians can invite Catholics to the Communion Table during mass, but not vice versa.  My best friend is Catholic, and, terrible thought, but if she were to pass before I do, I would not hesitate to take communion at her service.  In fact, I would insist.

              But, again, I’m not part of Joe’s family.  I will participate in the service, as a friend and colleague, but no more, and will stay seated in the pew until the service is over.

              The real question is….how do I get hold of Joe’s stories about moving across the country in 1952.

              Etiquette can’t help me there. For that, it’s too late.