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It’s a thing done at Christmas, sometimes on Halloween. I’ve never done either of them, although my oldest son was committed to a mental institution for a few months when he set fire to one on a neighbor’s door around his age twelve. We visited him a couple times per week at the hospital, around 40 miles away.
According to Wikipedia, there are a number of reasons for placing a wreath. Mainly they’re for harvests and religious ceremonies, such as Advent Season, something I’ve never heard of, even in the years I was a Catholic. Mostly, they’re implemented by a survivor after the death of someone important to him-her.
So, the most commonly thought of need for a wreath would be an item placed on a friend or loved one’s casket or grave. Thankfully, I’ve never had to do it. Usually, when I discuss a topic, I can say I’ve done it at least a few times. With this one, however, my experience is nada. Zip. Zero. Squat. Ain’t done that awful thing.
When my dad died, less than two years after I arrived in California, Mom insisted I not go back to Michigan. There were some nasty arrest warrants based on my 35 year spree of drunkenness. She didn’t want me in jail. She also made me promise I wouldn’t be there for her funeral for the same reason. I composed and sent a taped eulogy for both. I assume my Grandma passed away, as she was 94-96 when I saw her in 1996 during my surprise visit to that state. I didn’t even call Mom until I was a couple hours from her home.
Haven’t heard anything about my kid brother, but I wouldn’t go to his funeral even if the air fare was paid. (Still have some warrants due to “the fairy incident“, but I also don’t care for him). Same thing with my pedophile cousin. I might’ve wanted to be there when my uncle Hewitt died, as he was the only real “father figure” I ever knew. However, I was still homeless when it happened, unable even to afford the gas to reach the San Diego airport. I called him one day and learned from his widow he died 18 months earlier.
Mom’s younger sister, Bev, was technically my aunt, but we were more older sister-kid brother, separated by nine years. When I blew up at her thieving alky husband on the phone in the mid ’80s, she cut off contact with me. If she’s still alive she’d be 72, but she also drank a lot and smoked as much as I did-do, so it’s up in the air. I think I’d've attended a service for her, if there was one. Missed the funeral of her brother Darrell, the “bar brawler” uncle I’ve cited in the past. The one who beat me up at age 15, causing me to run away to Chicago when it was very cold. Wouldn’t've gone to his ceremony even if I could.
These days, it would hurt. A lot. I’ve trimmed the group of important people in my world to an amount not equal to the number of fingers I have, thumbs not included. These are people it would really hurt to lose. Funny, isn’t it, the only ones I’d miss are people I’ve met and dealt with since I was homeless? Maybe the pattern was set a long time ago when I missed the last services of my most important friend ever. He died 1,979 years ago, so I had no chance to attend. He was murdered by a mob of Jews with skullduggery in mind.
My best friend ever, Jesus Christ, is still setting patterns in my life, so I won’t argue with the practice He’s instilled in me.
I’m just sayin’.
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