The shelter is where the services take place for the deceased vets' families. If it's a cremation, the van will take the Urn after the service to Steve-o, who takes care of the cremation section (section 1). If there is a casket, I drive the van down to the shelter with Spavetta to pick it up and transport it to section 6 (full burials), where we drop the casket into its designated, pre-dug cement crypt. Mike O, or "O" for short, is the funeral "rep." He leads the funeral procession to the shelter, and after the service uses a plastic tie wrap to attach an ID marker to the Urn/Casket. The ID marker contains the Name of the deceased, burial section, and four digit ID number which matches up with the designated cement crypt in which the casket will reside within the next 15-20 minutes.
The cemetery only contains two sections, 1 and 6, because it is newly opened. We are rapidly expanding.
I drive the van, with Spavetta in the passenger seat. Spavetta isn't allowed to drive because a few days ago he put the large metal claw of a back-hoe through the glass windshield of the forklift. Spavetta, who I mentioned in my previous post as a possible borderline autistic, turns out to be former muscle for the Italian mafia. The more I find out about Spavetta, the more sorry I feel for him. First impression, he's slow mentally and physically, looking for any excuse to get out of work. He takes two hours spraying off metal temporary ID markers and sweeping floors, or will take an entire day washing vehicles that will only be filled with dirt the very next day.
It turns out Spavetta, now 50, was a former hitman for the mob. What he lacks between the ears, he more than makes up for in brute strength. He's solid as an ox. About 6'3'' and powerful. I saw him move a 500 lb. casket by himself because he stubbed his toe and became angry. He lifted the casket and easily did what 4 people were attempting. He is slow. Apparently, right before he left the mafia, for whatever reason, he was beaten so badly that his head was never the same. He's on countless medications for diabetes and most likely to keep his mood repressed. And seeing the way the rest of the guys pick on him, I would be far away on the day Spavetta misses a pill and kills Frog with a shovel.
But I'll get to the rest of the guys as time goes on. One thing I noticed during my few weeks is the disconnect between the cemetery's administration and the grounds crew. Darrell, the cemetery director, is infamous, as in not one person has a nice thing to say about him. It seems that he is oblivious to this, because he still shows his ignorant smiling face every day. He is oddly shaped, with a turkey neck that seems to wobble even when he's standing still, which I know must just be my eyes playing tricks on me. He has hair plugs which are gelled back across his still very visible scalp and a clean mustache. He wears nice silk shirts and tells me that he "knows" because he's worked "in the field" too. He's never done a real day's manual labor in his life. He has a degree in horticulture. And now he's the director of a national cemetery. He asks impossible things of us, demands that we set 12 headstones a day, when he denied funding for a machine that digs the holes for the headstones. We have to dig those holes by hand, which takes a day in itself. We are backed up beyond belief with people crying because there is a little plastic marker, clumsily pushed into the earth where their patriotic, God-fearing relative now rests in peace. Darrell refused to turn the sprinklers off at section 1, which is still under construction, and now looks like a swamp or mud pit even on sunny days. My boots sink into the ground, we slip as we try to carry dead bodies, trudging through inch thick mud.
So far my time here has been eye-opening. More tomorrow.
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