The burial was very nice. It was a Jewish burial so the rabbi explained the tradition of rending garments, a method of coping that, even as a non-Jew, I heartily endorse. Unfortunately, no actual garments were harmed in the ceremony, just a little ribbon. The rabbi was a nice guy with good schmoozy skills.

I was slightly freaked out when we all had to shovel dirt into the grave, but I was fascinated by the grave diggers, the technology involved in lowering the casket, and the other little practical aspects of burial that you never really have to think about until it happens.

MonkeyDad teared-up a little as he shoveled, but aside from that, there was no emotional display. In fact, we all went out to Ruby Tuesday's afterwards, and ate salads and chatted lightly as if it were just another day.

This is partly because that side of Monkey's family are completely without emotional affect, and also I guess because as deaths go, this was the best-case-scenario: GrandMonkey was 98 years old, had led a full and happy life, went peacefully in her sleep. Everyone had nice little stories about her.