After my grandpa passed away, my family arranged to fly out to Springfield, Missouri, for the funeral and burial. He had lived a long, wonderful life, and got sick a few months before leaving the world, ready to join my grandmother. The last year or so of his life, he had lived with my parents, away from Missouri, which had been his home up until he could no longer live alone, but was still high functioning enough to avoid a nursing home. Living with my parents, he was able to keep his independence for a while, and only went into an assisted living facility a couple weeks before his death.

The visitation and funeral were both as my grandpa would have liked - many friends and relatives present, every one of his seven grandchildren, and one great-grandchild all able to make the trip to celebrate his life. Donations were made to 'Studio 55', an artist studio club my grandpa had helped to form and was a prominent member of for a long time. The chaplain that shared the eulogy painted a beautiful picture with her words of the man my grandpa was: a talented artist, a man with a joke and smile, and a devoted husband to my grandmother, who suffered from Alzheimer's disease. Regardless of her decline, he was by her side up until the day she passed away. My sister Natalie got up and read a beautiful poem about my grandfather, including in it what a wonderful father, brother, friend, grandfather and great-grandfather he was, and how much his personality touched all our lives.

The small group of immediate family met in the back of the funeral home after the service. We shared a couple hugs, let out a few tears, and prepared to head over to the cemetery, for the military ceremony and burial of my grandpa. Here, the mortician, Harley (yes, his name was Harley), and the chaplain expressed their personal condolences and said they would be riding over in the hearse with my grandpa. This was where my ears perked up. "I want to ride in the hearse," I whispered to my uncle. He stopped the mortician, and asked if this was something I could do. "There is a little room," Harley said. "Sure, she can come along." I figured a vehicle that size, there would be plenty of room.

By a little room he meant the middle spot of the front bench seat. I was thrilled that I would be taking the final ride with my grandpa to his eternal resting place, but to do so, I would be traveling between two almost complete strangers, awkwardly straddling the stick shift of the hearse. I would never have thought a hearse would be a stick shift, of all things for a hearse to be. But of course this particular hearse turned out to be a manual. So, there I was, in a hearse, waiting for Harley to finish loading up my grandpa, sitting next to Ann, the chaplain, who I had just met an hour or so ago, my sisters pointing at me and giggling in front of the hearse through the windshield. Shaking their heads in disbelief, and taking pictures with their camera phones.

And then Harley got behind the driver's seat. It was snug. The three of us were all pressed up against one another, and Harley reached between my legs every now and then to shift gears. The chaplain and the mortician started talking across me, and carried on a conversation about taking cruises, different types of diet techniques for high cholesterol (turns out Harley has a problem with his), and some of the restaurant favorites in Missouri. Ann even suggested that at some point, Harley and his wife join her husband and herself on a trip to the Caribbean. From the funeral home to the cemetery, driving a hearse, it's about 20 minutes. 20 minutes. I sat in that middle seat between Harley and Ann for 20 minutes, who made small talk with me for maybe the first 2 minutes. That's 18 minutes of my awkward presence overlooked by these two pleasant enough strangers, who continued their banter from the funeral home to the cemetery, having nothing else to say to me, as we had nothing in common except the fact that it was my grandpa that was in the backseat.

Finally, we arrived at the cemetery. I waited for Ann to get out, then she reached in to lend me a hand, as I scrambled out of the car. "Thank you for letting me ride with you," I said uncomfortably, smiling politely at her. She smiled back. "Your welcome," she said kindly. She was too nice of a person to say anything else, although I think she was thinking just what I was - that she had been just as ill at ease as I was. I met up with the rest of my family, who wanted to know all the details. We had a quick laugh at the whole situation, then filed into the covered area reserved for burial ceremonies.

So, now I can say that I've ridden in a hearse. Not the most comfortable ride. Definitely not as cool as it sounds, if you are straddling the clutch in the middle of the bench seat. But I guess if you want to ride in a hearse, if the chance arises, you take it, even if it's the awkward middle seat. The next time I find myself in a hearse, I will most likely be in the backseat, and instead of sitting awkwardly between two strangers, I'll be laying down stiffly inside a box.