Uncle Paul

We called him Uncle Paul even though he wasn’t technically family. He was a neighbor that lived on the other side of a hedge. A neighbor that had no family and was in need of some friends. A neighbor that had no family and was in need of some friends. His partner had died shortly after we moved in and he was alone.

It didn’t take long. He became our friend. He especially clicked with my mother. They became an unstoppable garage sale team often being confused as a married couple bickering over china or sets of silver. It was a strong friendship and over the years it grew and grew. He knew us as children and then as we got older, he knew our children. Neighbor Paul became Uncle Paul and he found himself at our dinner table for most holidays. Over the years he would share many stories of his amazing adventures. A life well-lived.

One of those adventures is that of Paul as a young man from the middle of nowhere in Ohio. He joined the US Army shortly after the invasion at Pearl Harbor. He joined the Army and saw things he had never seen before, experienced things he had never imagined, he found out who he was and what he was capable of. He learned of bravery in the face of adversity. A life well-lived, indeed.

This past weekend we found ourselves at his funeral. A very small gathering. When you live to be 99 years old you tend to outlive all your friends. We were his adopted family and we were the only ones left. We were at his side when he died and we were at his side now. Just the 7 of us seated in the chairs that day…almost outnumbered by the soldiers holding rifles charged with performing the three-volley salute. A funeral at Arlington National Cemetery for a man worthy of the recognition, but a little short on friends and family. He’d out-lived them all.

The chaplain finished up the ceremony and let us know we would now walk to the columbarium to place the urn into its final resting place. The rifles had been fired. The bugler had finished playing Taps. My father was presented with the flag. Now, we’d lay Uncle Paul to rest.

We quietly followed the chaplain. All of us in our own thoughts. As I walked I wondered to myself if anyone in this cemetery shared my family’s last name. It wasn’t a common name, but surely out of the 400,000 souls buried at Arlington National Cemetery there had to be at least one Schroth. As a kid I would check local phone books in hotel rooms while traveling to see if there were any Schroths in town. More often than not, there were none.

My thoughts were interrupted as we arrived at Uncle Paul’s niche. Top row. He’d like that. It was cold so we gathered tightly, shoulder to shoulder. The chaplain said a few ceremonial last words. She climbed a small step ladder and placed the urn. We recited the Lord’s Prayer and then it was done. We all shook hands with the chaplain and thanked her for the beautiful ceremony. We said goodbye and as she walked away I turned back to the wall that now held Uncle Paul’s ashes…his new home. I turned and looked at the wall of names and right there at eye-level, right there on the same row as Uncle Paul, I saw our name…our family name. Carved into marble just a few spots down from where Uncle Paul now sat…Betty Anne Schroth.

I blurted out while pointing at the wall, “Hey Chaplain! That’s us! That’s our people!”

Uncle Paul had a new neighbor and lo and behold, she was a Schroth! And, to take it even further, my wife’s name was Anne Schroth. What? How?

Uncle Paul and Betty Anne Schroth…both veterans from World War 2, both lived into their late 90s and died within 2 years of each other. There they were, up there on the top row.

Neighbors.

Later, we looked up how many Schroths are buried in Arlington and there’s only 6. Only 6 out of 400,000 and somehow Uncle Paul found one. If they have garage sales in the afterlife you can be certain that Uncle Paul and Betty Anne are up there making deals, maybe even bickering over some china or some silver.