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The Wild Winds Chant His Requiem
by Roger S. VanGorden, MPS

I went to a funeral the other evening.
Being an active Mason, one gets used to
going to such things. You never get used
to death, necessarily, but you get used to
going to funerals. This funeral was for a
great man. You know, ambitious feet
tread round after round that ladder that
leads to fame in our mystic circle-type
man. I planned to get there about seven
o'clock. I thought the Masonic service
would be at seven-thirty. With this great
man, great as he was, I figured every
Mason in the area would be there, and
half those from other parts of the state.

As I drove into the parking lot at the
funeral home, I felt lost. Few cars were
there. Maybe fifteen at the most. I
thought I was at the wrong place. This
great man, great as he was, would have
them lined out the door. I figured a state
funeral by the Russians would pale. But
No. Only a few cars, no waiting. I parked
my car in one of the many available
spaces and proceeded inside. The direc-
tor opened the door. I told him I was
there to see the great man.

"Left and down the hall," was his
reply.

As I walked into the parlor, it seemed
that I was caught in one of those time
warps. You know what I mean, like some
you have seen on some of the sitcoms on
TV. Everything was in slow motion and
my peripheral vision was blurry. The
crowd was sparse. I nodded to a Masonic
friend sitting on a sofa at the rear of the
parlor near the door. He appeared un-
comfortable. You could say he was fid-
gety. He sat away from the small cluster
of family and friends near the coffin as if
he were an uninvited guest. I walked in
and signed my name to the register. I
picked up one of those remembrance
cards. You know, those cards that list the
birth, death, burial and minister deliver-
ing the eulogy. Your wife usually picks up
one after she signs in for you both.

I walked up to the coffin of the great
man. One of his daughters walked up to
me. She saw my nervousness. For some
reason I felt out of place. I shyly offered
my hand, which she grasped. I told her
I met the great man once several years
ago. Told her I admired him and what he
had done for our fraternity. She listened
intently to every word I spoke as if she
wanted to share my vision of him. In her
eyes I saw a sadness. Not a sadness from
mourning a recent loss, but a sadness of
mourning from long ago. Being nervous,
I rambled about the great man's accom-
plishments. But I could not help looking
into her eyes. I wondered if the pain was
of recitals and school plays missed, or

first dates and proms forgotten. Climb-
ing that ladder that leads to fame in our
mystic circle has its price. Did she pay
that price?

Or was it pain because I remembered
what many had forgotten the last few
years. You see the great man tread round
after round of that ladder that leads to
fame in our mystlc circle only to find that
at the top step was a label that read, " Not
a step! " Yet he stood on that step. Stood
too long, overstayed his welcome. Lesser
men knocked him off that ladder. They
said the great man used our time for his
purposes. He used us to make himself a
great man. Maybe that was our pain.

You see, people are funny. Our heroes
are great until a chink appears in their
armor. Did Hiram have any faults? We
read that Moses was a great prophet and
leader of the Ch~ldren of Israel. He led
them out of bondage, through the wilder-
ness, to the edge of the Promised Land,
where on Nebo's lonely mountain, his
eye undimmed by age and his natural
forces unabated, God took him. What
would we read if he came down from
Nebo and led the Children to the Prom-
ised Land? What would have happened
if Moses had hung around for another
forty years? Would he have overstayed
his welcome? The great man went up to
Nebo and pointed us toward our prom-
ised land. But he came down. He tried to
lead us to it. The Damons of the frater-
nity believed they were the wisest. They
pointed out Moses' flaws. When our he-
roes have overstayed their welcome, do
we toss them out just like last night's
garbage?

But this coin does have two sides. The
path of excesses leads to self-destruction.
Even Masonic excesses. And the great
man was excessive. In this day of political
labels he was a demagogue. His oppo-
nents say he was the self-proclaimed
world's greatest Mason. That he had his
faults showed his spirit was human, not
divine. I have known supposedly-lesser
Masons at whose funerals other Masons
wept. Why not here? Does the path of
Masonic excess lead to an empty funeral
parlor in a small town where only those
show up out of feelings of responsibility?

I don't know. The great man's ambi-
tious feet trod round after round of our
mystic circle. Hundreds did not march in
measured tread and somber drapings.
But they should have. Only a few out of
respect and responsibility circled the
room. Familiar words were spoken. The
next day they lowered his body into that
portal called the grave on the brow of a
hill where the wild winds chant his re-
quiem.
