Ed’s wake was held today in his farm’s corn field under a rented tent and a clear sky and a punishing sun. I think just about every farmer in White Creek and Washington County stopped by with their spouses and kids to pay their respects to the family and express their sorrows.

I am not a good person for wakes and funerals, but  the family asked me to take some photos  and I was happy to do it. I lasted for an hour or so. Ed was in a beautiful closed mahogany casket surrounded by flowers and two portraits of him that I had the pleasure of having taken.

They were good photographs of Ed, and how could they not be.

You’d have to be a poor photographer indeed to get a bad photo of Ed, he was born for TV or the movies, really. He could have walked right onto the set of Duck Dynasty, his sartorial inspiration.

The farmers and their families pulled their cars and trucks right up to the tent and walked through the line, past the grandchildren with their friends, past the Gulley children, Maggie and Tony, Chad and Kate, Jesse (Jeremy wasn’t there when I was there) and Carol.

I have never seen Chad cleaned up like that, his beard shorn, his close spotless. I didn’t recognize him. Carol was holding herself together, Maggie is having a hard time with Ed’s death.  Carol was ashen. The grandkids were all dolled up, I have never seen this farm family so squeaky clean.

I told Chad he must have run through a car wash.

Maria and I went together in separate cars and we sat for awhile in the folding chairs the undertaker brought. He was old school, tall and somber in a black suit with white shirt and tie. I tried to chat with him, but he mostly gave me grim nods, like a Secret Service Agent around the President.

It was awfully hot and humid and I stood out in the sun for awhile taking pictures, Chad sent his son out with a bottle of cold water.

It was touching to see these big and undemonstrative men and their families show their love and feeling for Ed and Carol, this was a rich gathering of people who work the land, all of them in jeans,  brown with calloused hands and dirt under their nails. Their handshakes all hurt.

Ed’s community turned out in force for him, just as they had for Carol when he was sick.

The farmers and their wives hugged Carol and the kids and the men mostly didn’t seem to know what to say – who does? – but everyone knew what they felt. Carol, a neighbor and friend said the men all had great hearts but they were  afraid that emotion was a sign of weakness. It didn’t mean they didn’t feel it, she said.

Like me, it was clear that they knew someone quite special in their world was gone. In the line there was the usual farm chatter – cows, feeds, money, milk, heat. The land is turning brown and dry, I heard it again and again.

As for Mr. Gulley, I was grateful the casket was closed, he would not wish to be seen as he was when he died, so thin and pale. He did like being the center of attention, and he would have enjoyed that. Everyone was there for him.

The portraits positioned around the casket captured his robust and very much alive self. I was glad to hear he was buried in his favorite uniform, a camo shirt and shorts and white socks, they were his dress clothes.

He rarely took them off unless they were just too filthy to bear.

I thought they might bring out one or two of his favorite cows, but it was too hot I think. The line was long at 4 p.m. and longer at 5:45 when I left, broiling under the heat of the sun and the weight of my cameras and lenses.

They were still coming when I left.

I’m sure Ed would have been delighted at the setting. In a funny way, I felt like Ed’s family is my family now, and vice versa. Carol is our friend as well as Ed, and  we will try to be present for her, insofar as she wishes.

One of the kids’ may need some outside counseling and we brought a name of a therapist.

Carol plans to enroll in bereavement counseling. I love to say that only the strong get help, I believe it to be true.

Ed was very important to that family, he was the center of their universe in so many ways.  That is strange for me, I barely knew my father, and he meant very little to me, neither did his  death.

There was a wallboard at the entrance to the tent, more than a hundred photos of Ed, only a few were mine, but I was happy to see them there.

Maria and I walked through the line, did more hugging and smiling and commiserating, but it felt strange, because we had nothing new to offer, and we have been doing that with them for days and weeks. It seemed a bit stale in a funny way, so I retreated to step back and get some photos.

It was strange for me to think of Ed in that basket heading on Sunday to the nearby family plot. In that field, he has always been in a tractor.

Today had a sense of finality for me, i don’t think I’ll be going to the funeral on Sunday, I don’t need to eulogize Ed, lots of people will be on hand to do that. Something is holding me back. I’ve kept my promise to Ed, made my peace with him, said my goodbyes.

Frankly, I think I need to protect myself, I’ve had my own brush with troubles of the mind, and I need to trust my instincts.

I expect I will continue to write about Ed in one way or another, but this phase of my friendship with him – the end of his life –  is over, I think, for me. Time to be helpful and present and to let go and move forward, something that will be much harder for the family to do than for me.

Of course, Ed asked me to keep an eye on Carol and his children, and of course, I will. They are pretty smart and pretty tough, and i think they will do a good job of taking care of themselves. Together, they are a small army.

One important thing:

I believe Carol and Maria and I will continue the creative journey we began with her and Ed three years ago. She wants to keep publishing her very popular blog and I am there to help her with her writing if she needs it.

She is thinking of writing a book about this experience.

My life is different without Ed, emptier and shallower, a part of me is open, there is a large hole, and I will fill it as it goes. It’s not something you can force.

I will not soon find another friend like Ed. I did have a brief moment of self-pity last night, I thought of Paul Moshimer, who killed himself,  and I thought of Ed, and  how sad to lose two such precious and compassionate friends before their time.

These kinds of people do not grow on trees, and  I am a bit shy of losing another. I’m 71, perhaps time to get easier with my life and accept it more fully. I have a lot of good work to do.

My self-pity doesn’t last long, I dislike it. I shook off this sludge feeling off, and felt waves of gratitude instead. That I did not commit suicide, I do not have brain cancer.  I have a wonderful partner, my life is full of love and work and meaning and animals and challenges and photos and blog posts. At 71, I have never felt luckier or more alive. I have never once thought of retirement, it makes no sense to me (for me.)

Several people have suggested bereavement counseling for me, but that is not something I want or need right now. I didn’t have brain cancer, I did not lose a father I loved, my spouse is not sick or dying. I have learned the hard way to get help when I need  help, and I do not need help.

So I stood in front of Ed’s casket and said goodbye one more time, I told him I wouldn’t be seeing him before he goes into the ground and his spirit is free to soar to a new place, with or without angels. It might have left already.

He always has a lot to do.