A recent post on this blog discussed some interesting points about German state regulation on the handling of the deceased. Interesting to me, at least, because I’ve been to Germany twice for the explicit purpose of, well, handling the deceased.

Both my grandparents--Germans that left the country only to return in retirement almost 40 years later--died in the last decade. They were both cremated and “buried” at sea, which according to the above-mentioned site is one of few options for Germans.

When my Opa died, we had a service in a nondescript funeral parlor, followed by an afternoon feast in a dim private dining room. We later received a document in the mail with a sea chart detailing his final resting place. Oma, who died only a few months after my mother and I had returned from a trip to Germany, was the center of what I found to be a much more uplifting ritual.

We went along on the boat this time, a small charter craft that was specially equipped for the purpose. A short cruise out of Kiel harbor into the fringes of the Baltic Sea was accompanied by the obligatory German coffee and cake. The captain spoke a few words and then lowered the (according to the brochure, water soluble) urn into the water.

I took a lot of pictures that day, some of the best photographs I think I’ve ever taken. I was really into using slide film at the time, and the crisp, ultra-saturated images they produced ended up being both dramatic and touching (at least to me and a few family members).

But there was one thing I regrettably did not manage to capture. As our entourage filed into a restaurant across from the marina, my brother and I spotted the first mate from the funeral boat. He was getting into his car, and had already changed from his crisp, respectful uniform into his civilian clothes, baggy jeans and the t-shirt from some outdated metal group.

This was a nicely symbolic end to what I consider my first relationship with this country. This was the relationship of awkward formality, sometimes stressful or crushing familial obligation (less so for me than for my mother and others), and relief found mostly in the absurd (or the occasional trip to a site more typically vacation-oriented than a musty apartment).

I loved my grandparents but never really knew them. I see in faded family photograph near strangers that lived lives I could never understand, and now can’t even ask about. The strongest association I have to my grandparents was the ritual importance of afternoon coffee and cake.

When it came to eating, my brother was the star, the “good eater.” My appetite always disappointed my grandparents a little. He’s also the one that got to have something approaching normal conversations with them. As their memories and general faculties faded, so did their English and my opportunities to talk to them.

So my strongest memories of the trips we made are of funny, strange things, things that you would expect a bored kid or teenager to notice if placed in a room with strangers literally speaking another language. These memories, perhaps trite or perhaps disrespectful, are far more important to me than I think some people might be able to fathom.

That's why I wish I had a picture of the heavy-metal first mate. It isn't something that anyone else would find touching, but it still means something to me, though I'm not totally sure what.