The Military Funeral of Don Adams
No, not that Don Adams
Under a punishing late July sun, family and friends gathered at Riverside National Cemetery – a gravestone’s throw from March Air Reserve Base – to pay their last respects to a veteran, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a friend, and my brother-in-law, Don Adams. It was my first military funeral.
When we arrived at the gravesite, the American flag was flying at half-mast and an Honor Guard, consisting of several sharp and disciplined soldiers, stood by. With their polished shoes, stately uniforms, and unwavering composure, it was evident this was more than a funeral — it was a ceremony, an unfolding of honor, respect, and gratitude.
Hawaiian Shirts and Puka Shells
The bone-dry air seemed to crackle as I stepped toward the back of the hearse. I was one of six pall bearers, as was Alex, my then twenty-two-year-old son. As we waited for instructions from the funeral home attendant, I felt the ferocity of near triple-digit heat zero in on me, like an ant under a magnifying glass.
Standing there, wilting, all I could think of was, I wish I would’ve worn my hula-girl Hawaiian shirt instead of this long-sleeved, black one. I know Don would’ve appreciated the laid-back island vibe, him being a lover of the 50th state and rocking those groovy puka shells back in the ‘70s. But there are rules and traditions. The dude abides.
As the rear door of the hearse swung open, the six of us took our spots, grabbed a handle, and lifted the gold-colored casket out of the back. Members of the Honor Guard snapped a salute as the flag-draped casket emerged, their razor-sharp precision exuding an aura of reverence and discipline the likes I have never witnessed. The weight of the casket was no match for the enormity of the lump in my throat.
Tapped Out
We gently placed the casket on a gurney and wheeled it with the utmost care toward a covered gazebo, the wooden canopy mercifully shielding everyone from the midday sun. Two members of the Honor Guard stood at each end of the casket.
In the distance, approximately twenty yards across a green field of manicured grass and neat rows of flat tombstones, a three-person rifle team stood tall as they prepared to fulfill their solemn duty. A lone bugler was positioned to their right.
In perfect unison, three shots rang out. Crack. Then another three. Then another. My ears rang from the snap of gunfire. The bugler then stepped forward, his brass instrument gleaming in the harsh light. That’s when the first few notes of “Taps” filled the air. The somber and melancholy melody echoed through the cemetery. It was like the sound of a thousand broken hearts all crying at once. There wasn’t a dry eye in the gazebo. I swear I heard the birds in the trees weeping.
As the final notes drifted sweetly away, the silence that followed was thick with emotion. After the playing of “Taps,” I was tapped out. I needed a reset, and the ceremony hadn’t yet hit its peak.
Don the Man
Interestingly, the eulogy was my reprieve. As the minister spoke, I couldn’t help but think how Don would have enjoyed the words– heartfelt, authentic, with a touch humor. Don was always the life of the party, the kind of guy who lived life on his own terms, and one hell of a fun brother-in-law.
When I first met Don I was a young teenager, and he took me under his wing. At the time he drove a Lotus Elan, and he would take me for drives around the Palos Verdes Peninsula near Los Angeles. As that slick little slot car red lined so did my adrenaline, a wide grin plastered on my face. And Don was right there with me, loving every second of it.
I’m not talking out of school when I say Don had a few guilty pleasures, but to him they weren’t “guilty,” they were just pleasures. He liked his cigarettes, his Cadillac margaritas, his chile rellenos (from El Cholo, the original one on Western Avenue in L.A.), and good times. He enjoyed himself in all situations, and that’s what I admired about him.
Of course, his 80-year life was more than just fast times at Ridgemont High. Don also had a distinguished career as a jet mechanic in the Air Force, and later with Delta Airlines. He took his responsibility for ensuring the safety of pilots, passengers, and crew seriously. He was also a rock and roll drummer back in the day, the pompadour era, not mop top.
After retiring from Delta, he found a second career in the entertainment industry as a part time actor (stage name, Joseph Darrell), a voiceover talent, a location scout with his own company, and, get this, a seat filler at the Academy Awards. He enjoyed every minute of it.
As the minister recalled certain events in Don’s life, my own memories of Don came in and out of focus. There were many great moments we shared, laughter and adventures never to be forgotten. I felt lighter. Then the eulogy ended, and the gravity of the moment sunk in, once again.
The Colors of our Country
It was time for the final farewell – the folding and presentation of the American flag. With elegant precision, the two soldiers present lifted the Stars and Stripes from the casket and meticulously folded it into a tight triangle; their movements precise, their folds crisp. As the ceremony reached its solemn pinnacle, the flag was presented, on bended knee, to my sister, Mary, a symbol of our nation’s appreciation for his service. She accepted it with strength and grace.
Cheers, buddy. This Cadillac margarita’s for you.
