Uncle Boice has been a man of few words for as long as I can remember. Hard-working, nice, generous – just not very talkative.
Eight years ago, when my dad was in his last days, we were making plans for his funeral and burial. Our church, like many southern churches, has its own cemetery right behind it. Numerous families have their own plots, including Mom’s family. Her parents, Oliver and Ida Mae Porth, are buried there; in that section of the cemetery, there is room for all five of their children and some in-laws. There is no designation as to who was to go where.
So, as Dad neared his final hours, I called Uncle Boice to see where in that plot Dad should be buried, which spot should be his.
Boice's response? “Wherever. First come, first served.”
Eight years ago, when my dad was in his last days, we were making plans for his funeral and burial. Our church, like many southern churches, has its own cemetery right behind it. Numerous families have their own plots, including Mom’s family. Her parents, Oliver and Ida Mae Porth, are buried there; in that section of the cemetery, there is room for all five of their children and some in-laws. There is no designation as to who was to go where.So, as Dad neared his final hours, I called Uncle Boice to see where in that plot Dad should be buried, which spot should be his.
Boice's response? “Wherever. First come, first served.”
