“Now George, you have some choices to make,” said the nursing home social worker. “Since your rehabilitation has been completed with us, you can either stay here, or we can locate another home for you.”

“Why would I move? I found a home here, thank you,” George sternly replied. He never minced words and often times swore like a parrot. “I feel right at home here. My daughter lives up the street, and my wife and son are across the street,” he said.

“Across the street?” the social worker asked. “What do you mean, ‘across the street,’ George?”

“Well, beyond those trees is Forest Hills Cemetery, and they are both in a hole there. And I’ll be there soon,” he said with a smile.

“George! George! Billy’s gone. He’s gone!” Clarice cried out. The young man had just turned 22, and he was still a boy to them…but now he was just a memory.

Billy was tall and somewhat lean, but muscular. He seemed older than his age when he enlisted. Perhaps it was his army uniform that transformed this young lad into a man. His life had been somewhat typical of children growing up in the 1940’s. There was no Babe Ruth baseball league, limited organized sports, and no television. But there was Mom and Dad’s huge garden where he helped out, never complaining, and always seeming to enjoy working the ground, finally picking the rewards of their hard labor. There was weight lifting, and there was McTaggart’s pond where neighborhood children spent countless hours each summer swimming in the refreshing water. On the west side of the city, there were many woods and fields to hunt and explore in, and streams to fish in. After high school, one usually either went into the service or began a lifetime of working in one of the local paper mills. But Billy’s fate was sealed. The Korean conflict was at hand. The service would be his only alternative.

George and Clarice were a love story which began in their second grade of grammar school. Clarice fell in the schoolyard during recess. The teacher told her she’d be alright. But, as the story goes, George told Clarice, “The hell with her! I’m taking you home to your mother. That arm is broken!” And it was. That was the beginning of a love affair that lasted 68 years.

George left school for good during his 7th grade. His father ran a machine shop, and one day his dad suggested that George come to work for him. The boy replied with a smile, “That might not be a bad idea, Pa.” George worked there for 49 years.

Clarice’s parents’ home was the setting for their wedding on June 16, 1928. Close family members and friends were present. The Methodist minister officiated. Except for their brief honeymoon, they hardly ever ventured far from home. They were happy and content with what they had – a family, a home with a huge yard and garden, a car that ran, and bills that were paid. The family automobile always lasted for years. It was kept in their garage and religiously washed and waxed. George put on few miles going to work, to the grocery store, and visiting Clarice’s mother, Annie, who lived with Clarice’s sister one town away six months out of the year. The other six months Annie lived with George and Clarice.

What were idyllic years then took a turn. Pain had invaded their hearts. They would never see or hold Billy again. The gray, metal, flag-draped casket finally came home on the train. The Railway Express Company was the common carrier of such sorrow in those days. The undertaker was waiting at the train station in his black, late model hearse. It was a short drive to the funeral home, where family and friends would come to pay their respects in the ensuing days. Following that, the grave in the lot which George bought several days earlier would receive his son’s mortal remains…and hold them for eternity.

George always had a flagpole on his property. It was a patriotic thing to have. And every holiday he’d raise the American flag. But now that flag was to be replaced. The flag which covered Billy’s casket would be the one he’d fly now. Except in his latter days, little emotion ever showed in George’s voice or eyes. But it was well known that he cried inside every time he walked from his home over to the flagpole and clutched Billy’s flag to his breast. This was the closest he could be to his son. Now the flag would also fly on Billy’s birthday, and the anniversary of his death, too.

When George died, his daughter Ruthie came across some personal papers and photos which George kept in a metal box on top of the shelf in his closet. “I’ve never seen that picture before,” Ruthie said. It was of the flag-draped casket before it was lowered into the grave at Forest Hill Cemetery. She wondered how many times George sat on the side of his bed, looking at that picture. Perhaps Clarice never knew he had it either. If she had known, perhaps they sat on the side of the bed together, staring into the small black and white photo, holding each other’s hand, and saying nothing. They had come a long way since Clarice fell in the playground. But we now know that George did have the picture. It might have been his connection with the past…his comfort, his private moment with his son. Perhaps if he had seen the body, things might have been a little different. But George and Clarice never doubted that their son was in the gray, steel military casket.

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It was well known that he cried inside every time he walked from his home over to the flagpole and clutched Billy's flag to his breast. This was the closest he could be to his son.

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George probably held many private services alone for himself over the years when he held that picture. No doubt he stared into it, yearning to see his boy again. And he probably could recall in his mind the fresh smell of Billy after he shaved and showered, and after he applied that distinctive after-shave lotion he wore. We yearn for the living scent of our dead. He probably also wished now that he had hugged him more.

“Someday I’ll see my boy again, and I’m looking forward to it,” he said several times towards the end of his life. That time was approaching. He knew it. And I knew it, especially when he handed me Billy’s flag, asking me to care for it now. George was on his way to be with his beloved wife and their son, Billy. His wait lasted 43 years, 8 months, and 24 days.

I helped carry my Uncle George’s casket to his grave on that cold November day. It was the day before Thanksgiving in 1996. As the minister concluded the committal prayers, I smiled, knowing that the wait for George was finally over. He was with Billy once again, at that very moment…and for eternity. I have no doubt.

I will fly Billy’s flag on our flagpole, out of respect and honor for this U.S. Army veteran killed in action, and in appreciation for George and Clarice, my much loved aunt and uncle. They had endured because of their zest for life, their wonderful sense of humor, and their total commitment to each other. Billy’s death could never extinguish the respect and special magic they had for one another. The simple lives are our best teachers.

In so many ways, I had become the son who had been so tragically and brutally taken from them those many years ago. It’s good to ponder about and reflect upon those who have affected our lives. And it is right to give thanks.

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Dennis is an active funeral director and embalmer in the Boston area, in addition to working at Dodge fulltime. He and Fran Murphy are the two men you're most likely to speak with when you call Dodge for advice on a difficult case.