Here is a compilation of Ben Montgomery’s tweets from his father’s wake and funeral (related story):
Heading to Oklahoma to bury my father. Maybe I’ll live tweet this shit.
I wonder how many other people on my flight are heading home to put people in the earth. Strange custom if you think on it too long.
Reading the newspaper on an airplane is a religious experience.
John Prine said he reads the Inquirer when he flies because it makes him feel closer to god.
Landed in Houston, fired up the phone and found condolences. Thanks, friends, but my father was an irresponsible drunk who abandoned us.
Don’t feel sorry.
I’m curious about who will show up and what they’ll say. I’m sure people knew him in a completely different way.
His name was Walter Montgomery. He was a Southern Baptist preacher, then a long-haul trucker, then a diesel mechanic, then a preacher again.
Maybe what others say will inform my opinion. So long as it’s true.
And that’s sometimes hard to come by in Slick, Oklahoma.
I’m not in favor of adults wearing matching Dallas Cowboys sweatpants and sweatshirts.
Next stop: Tulsa.
* * *
The land of jack-pumps and knuckle-heads. The loneliest shade of brown.
On my mind: What’s the best way to ask for a pinch of your father’s ashes? And will that raise issues with TSA?
Informed the festivities tonight involve a bonfire and Jameson.
When someone dies, the Montgomerys build big fires.
Chicken-fried steak at Crows Creek Tavern. Good start, Oklahoma.
A few years ago, he flipped his pickup on HWY 16, and ran off into the woods before the highway patrol could get there.
A few years ago, he shot a hole in the roof of his trailer with a 20 gauge.
But we shouldn’t talk “bad” about the dead, my sister in law says.
Now we’re at an Indian casino. I do not know why.
An Indian casino in Tulsa at 1:52 p.m. on a Wednesday might be the saddest place in America.
Some people sit shiva, we go to the casino.
Now headed to Slick to make certain the woodpile is large enough for tonight.
The funeral is tomorrow, by the way. This is the wake.
Barb asks that only family be at the bonfire tonight. This is cause for great concern.
My brothers are equally ambivalent.
* * *
That’ll be a bonfire dad would be proud of. The sound of a chainsaw makes me think of death. [Link to photo of fire]
Feeding cows now. These here are AI bred to Ribeye.
[Montgomery, quoting someone speaking to his brother, Matthew, I believe] “What about the time he threw the jug-line out and got the treble hook stuck in his leg. You had to pull that out, didn’t you, Matthew?”
“Yeah. I said, ‘Dad, this is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.'” Laughter.
Matthew says he went to Laughlin once with dad, and found the old man sleeping on a slot machine.
Unexpected complications about burying dad on the north 40. Turns out the funeral home needs a cemetery permit.
Trying to decide who will give the eulogy. I’ve done it for Granny and Grandpa, but I don’t want to do it for dad.
If I do it, it’s going to be real. Factual. Not sure people want that.
Nothing like home videos to influence the way you feel about somebody.
Video from March of ’92. Dad has it together. He has moved back to Slick, and he’s trying to convince friends he’s made a good decision.
“It’s the only town in the United States that has both city limits signs on the same pole,” he says.
And then he says: “That’s probably all you want to hear from a stoned man showing off a small town.”
* * *
Cities should have dirt roads.
You get drunker around here, on account of dirt roads
That’s a bonfire, ladies and gentlemen. [Link to photo of brush/wood pile built around a … tree?]
The bonfire is out of control. The trailer’s on fire.
Fire under control. Thanks, kids! Still haven’t talked about dad.
Dad’s wife, Barbara, says he loved us. She says he thought of us every day. Says the alcohol made him insecure.
She says she’s suffered a few broken ribs, but she loved him.
Now for bonfire singing. Starts with Hank Jr, end with Amazing Grace.
The bonfire tree fell on cousin Martin’s truck. Nobody got hurt.
We were singing Amazing Grace when Marty shouted, “That tree’s about to fall!”
Only damage: Martin’s tail light.
Oh shit. The Mudgets are here.
The Mudgets are crazy, god bless ’em.
Word just went out: “Tell Bub to keep his clothes on.”
Barb finally admits that she’s not totally sad that dad is dead.
“He was hard to live with,” she says. “He knew that.”
* * *
The bonfire fades. The prairie wind is still strong.
We put him in the ground tomorrow. Still haven’t decided who will speak at his service.
Ending thoughts: Dad left my mom for a stripper. And she’s a good person. She knew his flaws. She should have left.
She can’t say why she stuck it out. Just that, “I loved him.”
The morning brings small town reckoning, I guess.
I’m going to try to sleep now. Thanks for the kind words, friends.
* * *
There’s something comforting in the fact that dad’s in a rented casket right now. Today’s the day.
We asked Barb last night if we could have a pinch of dad’s ashes. She’s totally fine with it. But we’ll have to wait ’til Christmas.
Paul reminded me of the time dad told us to stay put and don’t move ’til he got back. We did, on a sidewalk in front of a casino in Vegas
Waffles from Granny’s Black Angus waffle iron taste like salvation.
Of last night’s flatbed trailer fire, Paul says: “I wasted six beers trying to put it out.”
Nephew Luke just now: “God, I love stories.” [Link to photo of boy]
“The door was always open. He just never manned up and stepped through it.”
In the end, he couldn’t even tie his own shoes.
Paul and Matt found him once in the cab of his semi with a sawed-off shotgun across his lap. Paul said, Dad, you better give me that gun.
He always, always cried when he prayed.
I had forgotten about the time dad brought home a wolf. An actual wolf. From the wild.
* * *
It’s pretty amazing how many of these stories involve him falling down. That’s why we’re here, I guess. Headed to the church in a few.
There’s already a crowd at the church. Kind of surprised by that.
So far, two mourners are wearing camo cover-alls.
When we buried Grandpa, somebody said: I give dad six months. Somebody else said: Six weeks. It took three.
Folks are still trickling in. The pianist is playing Old Rugged Cross. Closed casket.
I didn’t make the viewing, but Paul said dad looked better than he had in years.
There’s David Mudget.
“Bub led a bunch of us to Christ,” says the man on the stage.
“You Montgomerys, y’all have touched thousands of lives.”
* * *
How Great Thou Art” in a country church is a thing of beauty, no matter who sings it.
Derek Carny is reading the obit. Just the facts.
He enjoyed woodworking, building blackpowder rifles, playing golf, and building carriages with his father.
I had forgotten that he coached our soccer team.
“He would want me to point you to Jesus,” the preacher says.
This is the fourth time in barely a year that we’ve buried family.
Dad used to let me swim in the baptismal.
Nobody’s going to speak to his nuance. That’s okay, I guess. Maybe at the potluck.
Hymnals out, page 426. “Victory in Jesus.”
They’re going to open the casket. A line is forming. Not sure I want to go see.
A parade of boots and Dickies and Carhartts and clip-on ties. Lots of crying. Interesting, that.
My mother is a portrait of grace and forgiveness.
He looks dead.
* * *
The preacher gave me a copy of the obit he read. There’s one edit that speaks volumes. [Link to a blurry photo that shows the struck-through line of a double-spaced eulogy]
Can y’all see that? He scrapped: “He will be missed by all who knew him.”
You wonder what’s going to become of this church. It was down to just him and a handful of the faithful.
* * *
He once flicked a kitchen match with his thumb and set fire to the pocket of his suit coat.
He used to drive an old MG. Says Martin: “It was the first time I remember going fast.”
Let there be no doubt: We are our stories.