David Friggle
Mraz
English 9
26 August 2013
A Stranger’s Lesson
That Friday night started out normally. I was watching television when jarring ring broke into
the studio audience’s laughter. Normally, I can wait out a phone call until the answering machine or one
of my parents picks it up. This time, however, my resistance gave out first, and I picked it up, slightly
annoyed.
“Hello?” This had better be good, I thought to myself, as I muted the television.
“Hi, John?” The woman on the phone mistook me for my father, which led me to believe she
was either a co-worker of his or a distant relative who’d not seen me for quite some time.
“No, this is George. Who’s speaking?”
“Georgie? That’s you? I can’t believe it! You sound just like your father! You’ve grown so much
since the last time I saw you!”
“Really? Thanks. Yeah, it’s George. Who’s this?”
She suddenly took on a more serious tone.
“This is your aunt Catherine, dear. May I talk to your mother?”
“Sure, just hold on a sec. MOM!”
“YES?”
“Aunt Catherine on the phone!”
There was a pause, then some footsteps, than a click on the line. Suddenly, my mother’s voice
came on, “Thanks, George, you can hang up now.
Our house is old, and you can half hear when someone talks downstairs. You may not hear the
joke, but you know someone told one. But there was no laughter from my mom, nor was there any idle
chatter. The muffled voices spoke of seriousness, gloom, and worry. Someone had died, I was sure of it.
The click of the phone hanging up led to a hushed conversation between my mom and dad in
the living room. Then, as if on cue, I was called down to talk.
I asked what was wrong. My mom searched for words, her mouth moving as if to start saying
every phrase she pondered, before finally telling me that my great-uncle Paul had died.
The initial shock of being told about a death quickly subsided, to be replaced with confusion.
Who was Great-Uncle Paul? Was he nice? Had I ever met him? Why don’t I remember him? Should I
remember him? Thoughts of my great-uncle Paul stayed in my mind until I was asleep. The funeral was
Saturday. At least the mystery would be solved soon.
The car ride to the funeral home was awkward. My parents’ obvious grief and my persistent
curiosity were offset by the saccharine voice of “Cousin Brucie,” the oldies station’s morning disc jockey.
For an hour and a half, Cousin Brucie was the only one in the car who was talking. Herman’s Hermits
and Derek and the Dominos didn’t seem to excite the same exuberance in my family as it did in Brucie.
The funeral service was no better. The generally uncomfortable mood during the car trip was
evident tenfold at the funeral. Pop music was replaced by forced smiles, but jittery hands, nervous
tapping of fee, and conversation without mention of my great-uncle Paul challenged the validity of any
of the smiles. At least Cousin Brucie was genuinely excited about his silly asides.
Sitting in the corner, I felt like a complete stranger. Everyone seemed to know who I was,
however. Cousins of uncles and sisters-in-law of aunts all came over to me in an effort to “cheer me
up.” Half of them told me that if I thought high school was good, I’d love college, and the other half
made some sort of weird joke when I told them I fenced in my spare time. I did my part by putting on a
happy face and answering everything politely, but the whole time I wondered who was being
comforted.
After a while, it was time for everyone to pay their respects. Although I had no idea what to do
when I got there, went up because I didn’t know what else to do. There were several pictures of GreatUncle Paul, in various stages of his life. He looked like my mother’s side of the family, but beside that,
there was nothing I recognized about him.
Standing in front of a coffin next to mourning people makes one think, and thing I did. I thought
about the impact he left on so many people. I thought about how I should have known him, how I
should have remembered him, and how I no longer had a chance for any of that.
Suddenly, I stopped thinking about him as Great-Uncle Paul and started thinking him as Paul
Horenburg. Paul Horenburg, who told jokes to friends at work, who laughed, who fell in love, who cried
on occasion, who got angry, and just a few days earlier, died. I realized that although Paul Horenburg
had died, the world didn’t. In days, weeks, months, or possibly years, the morning would stop, and
everyone would go back to their normal lives. Memories of Paul Horenburg would crop up occasionally,
as co-workers remembered funny stories he had told, or as friends looked back on evenings they had
spent with him, or when his family remembered the helpful advice he had given them in times of
trouble. Then, I finally realized that he had taught me something, too.
On that Saturday, I cried for a man I didn’t know.
Taken from Writing and Grammar Communication in Action – Prentice Hall – page 91