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he could do was use his hands to uncover Charlie's head and a bit of his legs."

Rebecca looked at Leonard, who simply nodded. She looked down into the hole at Charlie's remains. It was obvious to us that poor Charlie's embodiment consisted of a head and two legs poking out of a pile of dirt. She looked around. I followed her gaze as she took in the trees gently swaying in the breeze, and our horses grazing in the distance. She saw my brother and sister standing beside the grave, each with a little handful of wild flowers. Then she looked back at my Mother. Time seemed to stand still. Everyone but Rebecca and her husband was holding their breath, awaiting the accusations and recriminations that seemed immenent. Her eyes welled up with tears and her chin began quivering.

"Oh, Carol. It's all so beautiful! You've done so much for me. I can't believe all the trouble you're all going through. The flowers, your friends and family here for support..." She was openly crying now. "You've made this such a wonderful, spiritual, moving experience! I could never repay you for all the kindness and understanding." She turned and buried her face against her husband's chest, sobbing uncontrollably for a few minutes while her husband did his best to console her.

After a while, my mother suggested to Rebecca that she, her husband, and my mom return to the house while Leonard finished his job. The three of them drove back to the house in Rebecca's car. Sharon drove her truck, while we kids stayed and watched Leonard fill in the hole. My brother and sister put their flowers on the "grave," and we walked back to the house ourselves. Leonard passed us on the way with his truck and trailer, hauling the back hoe. It was parked in the yard when we got there, next to Sharon's truck. Rebecca and her husband had gone home.

I found the adults in the kitchen. There was an open bottle of whiskey on the table, and my mom, Sharon, and Leonard all had a drink in their hands. The relief permeating the atmosphere was so palpable, had I been more enterprising I could have bottled it up and sold it, and I'd be rich right now. At first the mood was a bit somber, but time, Canadian Club whiskey, and the immense relief of a disaster narrowly averted combined to put everyone in a more celebratory frame of mind. In time, this celebration came to be known as "Poor Old Charlie's Wake."

Learn more about this author, Joe Poniatowski.
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