Brenda Jacobsen lives and writes by the beach in Norwalk, CT. She received an M.A. in Education from Sacred Heart University. As a trained writing facilitator through the Amherst Writers & Artists Association, she has studied at the Westport Writers’ Workshop and online with Kathy Fish. Brenda’s work is published in Gone Lawn, Journal of Expressive Writing, FlashFlood UK, Pathos to Play Anthology & Wordrunner Chapbook, and forthcoming in Wonder & Whimsy Anthology. She is also the founder and active facilitator of the Purple Sofa Writers who meet in her home. When not writing, Brenda enjoys playing the harp and bagpipes, just not at the same time. Follow her on Instagram or read more of her writing on Substack.
All signs pointed to a perfect day for a family I did not know. An Irish Catholic family hired me to play the bagpipes for a funeral honoring a man who had lived into his 90s, a former historian and professor at Columbia University, and the author of 20 books.
All signs pointed to a perfect day. His daughter, on the phone, had sounded serious and asked for videos in advance to demonstrate my musicianship. Her father was not only an academic but a lover of poetry and Celtic music. Yes, I responded, I would play “Amazing Grace,” “Going Home,” and “Danny Boy,” among other laments. On the morning of the funeral in Norwalk, CT, I had plenty of time to don my Scottish uniform: my green-and-blue plaid Ferguson kilt, a decorative pouch called a sporran hanging in the front, a black Prince Charlie jacket, Gillies brogues on my feet, and a navy woolen Glengarry hat on my head. The temperature was perfect for bagpiping—rather than the heaviness of the day before—with sunny skies and a breeze like an airy sponge cake.
All signs pointed to a perfect day. I arrived thirty minutes before the start time of the service, so I could see for myself where I would be standing. The church had wide steps leading into the front door and a circular driveway so the hearse would be pulling up close to the door and me. I planned to stand outside on the right side of the entrance looking out at the driveway and street, nearest a small patch of yellow wildflowers. But not before, I sat and waited in the church vestibule, sitting quietly, breathing deeply to remain calm, while observing the friends and family entering the sanctuary. Ten minutes before the service, I got myself into position. After playing a few tunes, I noticed the hearse pulling into the church driveway and behind them, the cars filled with family members. I noticed the daughter when she arrived, and we glanced at one another as I was playing music. I was glad to see her, though we had not met in person. Still, I felt there was a mutual connection between us.
As the pallbearers carried the casket up the steps and into the church, I played the specific music the daughter had requested: “Going Home” and “Skye Boat Song.” All signs pointed to a perfect day when, during the funeral, his son told the assembled mourners that his father had listened to the boy’s unending questions and tried to answer them. Did I hear the word “workaholic”? And the grown-up granddaughter sang her grandfather into heaven with “Panis Angelicus” in a voice of innocence, the Latin words vibrating off the cathedral rafters. And yet heaven is on Earth, too, for her grandfather, who wrote and taught and lived for close to a century. He had a large family of supporters at home and around the world, like a devoted Irish army, never giving up on him.
After the service, I stood outside, on the church steps, playing “Dark Island” and “Danny Boy” when the casket was carried outside. As I played, rather than staring at the mourners, I focused my gaze across the street on a regal tree with velvet burgundy leaves, surrounded by evergreens. Then I scurried over to my car and headed for the cemetery, a few miles away, where I waited at a distance under a shady tree for the funeral entourage to arrive.
As the family assembled around the gravesite, newly adorned with flowers, I played “Danny Boy” and “Minstrel Boy” as requested. At the end of the graveside service, I walked slowly away playing “Amazing Grace,” first one verse, then another, with the ever-present low drone as an anchor. The music soared and danced with the branches of giant silent oaks—all signs of a perfect day.
All signs pointed to a perfect day. Family. Ceremony. Eulogies. As the piper, once again I peered through a window into the life of a family I did not know but came to appreciate for the stories they told. How much they loved and respected this man who had passed. It was clear that his family would carry on, inspired by this man who had lived life to the fullest and left a legacy like a garden in full bloom with the promise of more to come.
And, as always, I feel privileged to participate in a funeral service, learning things about myself, too. Often, I am nervous until I start to play, but I must get on with it! I always hope to play at my best, though I expect an occasional blunder. Sometimes, even on such sad occasions, my music brings joy. Sometimes bagpipe music makes people cry because it touches a chord deep inside them — where grief lives, where words are unknown, where music builds a bridge between the knotted notes of pain and a lightness of being.
