Does This Mean You'll See Me Naked?

by Robert D. Webster

  Many years ago, I held several funerals at a fundamentalist church, where the minister promoted himself and his facility at every opportunity. “If Mr. Jones could rise up out of that casket and talk to you right now,” he’d bellow, “he would tell you to come here every Sunday morning, every Sunday evening, every Wednesday evening, and every Saturday evening. If you want to hear the true word of God, then you must come here!”

  At one particularly rousing service, he came down from the pulpit and brought the whole front row of family members to tears—of anger. The deceased was a forty-five-year-old father who’d left a wife and twin sixteen-year-old daughters. Both girls were high school cheerleaders. The minister pointed his finger directly at them and shouted, “If your daddy could rise from death today, he would tell you two to stop displaying your bodies in wicked ways with those little cheerleader outfits.” Although most of the congregation voiced agreement with hearty rejoinders of “Amen, brother,” the family was not pleased.

  That minister was known to “tell it like it is.” He once declared to those assembled at a funeral service that the deceased, a divorced man and known drinker, was no doubt “in a devil’s hell, in a lake of fire, with not a drop of water to cool his tongue.” Once again, attending family members were not happy.

  The minister’s congregation was not shy about sharing their beliefs, either. As I was manning the front door at a visitation one evening, a member of his congregation asked me where I went to church. When I responded, she said, “Well, I really feel sorry for you, because you are surely going to hell.” When I asked why, she responded that only her church members would ever get to heaven.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Behavior in general, along with styles of dress at funerals, has reached new lows. I suppose this is reflected in other aspects of modern life as well—even churches encourage folks to come as they are, and airline travelers no longer don their Sunday best, not even in first class. So teenagers attend funerals wearing rock-band-emblazoned T-shirts, cutoff shorts, and sandals. Girls float in wearing hip-hugger pants that expose not only their bellies but also the cracks of their buttocks.

  Adults may dress a bit better, but their actions leave much to be desired. Some who attend visitations stand right outside the funeral home door, venturing inside for only a moment to sign the guest book and make their presences known—but otherwise they puff on cigarettes, spit tobacco juice, and spew raw profanity accompanied by plenty of raucous laughter. Not exactly a pleasant experience for more respectful mourners who hold their breath as they walk through acrid clouds of smoke, dodge puddles of brown phlegm, and close their ears to offensive language.

  Rude smokers continually astonish me by flipping cigarette butts into our decorative mulch and onto our pavement or by stubbing them out in our concrete entryway. I’ve even seen people emptying their overflowing car ashtrays into the funeral home’s parking lot.

  Children at funeral homes are always a sticky subject, depending on their ages and maturity levels. We funeral directors don’t appreciate being drafted as baby-sitters, but unfortunately, such is often the case. Four-year-old Jimmy and three-year-old Janie have no business being allowed to roam free and unmonitored in a place filled with distraught, weeping grownups—and untold opportunities for getting into mischief.

  I have seen small children knock over flower vases; push over lamps; yank every tissue out of a box and then toss all of them onto the floor; pull pictures off walls and onto themselves; jump off chairs and couches; remove couch cushions and hurl them onto the carpet; repeatedly kick walls with their new leather shoes; pitch entire rolls of toilet paper into commodes; turn restroom water faucets on and leave them on; slam doors over and over; and rub their dirty fingerprints on walls, molding, and door glass. What gets me most is any parent who thinks it is so cute when Junior holds the front door open for visitors, thereby letting out the air-conditioning and letting in flies and other insects.

  Parents, occupied with greeting visitors, can easily fail to keep track of their brood. But I have heard a few declare that they expect my staff (and me!) to watch their children while they speak to relatives. One informed me that I needed to build a playground on the property to keep her children occupied.

  I am all for allowing little ones to view and say good-bye to deceased loved ones, but if they are unlikely to remain at their parents’ sides or in the custody of an older sibling, then they should be left at home.

  I WAS ONLY TRYING TO HELP!

  The elderly funeral director for whom I worked in the 1970s told me that you could always tell the class of people at a visitation by the number standing outside smoking—or by the number who strolled in carrying bottles of soda pop. I provide coffee and soft drinks at no charge, but at least once a month I kick myself over it. When something is free, people often have no regard for the amount they consume. I expect some lack of discretion among children, but I actually have more problems with adults. Grown men and women will exit a funeral home with three or four cans of soda tucked under their arms for the ride home.

  After questioning a lady about this once, she said she was taking a can home to her mother who couldn’t make it to the visitation. And after watching two overweight little boys consume six pops apiece in one evening, I told them that they’d had enough. Their mother overheard and cursed at me for denying her sons the pleasure of a seventh soda. I hark back to the wisdom of my 1970s employer: he said that the mark of a classy bunch was a visitation during which no one set foot in the coffee lounge. That crowd did what they were supposed to do—sign the register, offer words of sympathy to the family, view the deceased, and leave quietly. But when serving and opening one’s facility to the public, those from all walks of life (and upbringings) will show up at your door.

  One evening I happened upon a woman rummaging through the lounge cupboard.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked from the doorway.

  She looked up, startled. “Coffee,” she responded. “I thought I’d make some.”

  I gestured toward the freshly brewed pot sitting, still full, in clear view on the counter. But like most people caught in a lie, she became even more defensive. “Well!” she huffed. “I was only trying to help!”

  Yeah, right.

  I’m amazed at the petty thefts that occur. Objects disappear constantly, everything from rolls of toilet paper to entire boxes of tissue (including their decorative plastic covers), scented candles from the women’s restroom, ink pens from the register book stand (we now attach pens with a chain), and even the silk floral arrangements that adorn our end tables. We now purchase only arrangements that are too large to fit into any woman’s purse.

  THOSE FLOWERS ARE LOVELY

  Flowers, actually, are another matter entirely. When people arrive at a funeral home, they expect to see flowers. The casket spray, for example, is the traditional large piece of flowers or floral arrangements that rests on the deceased’s casket. Priced between $175 and $350, depending on sizes and types of flowers used, it’s a big-ticket item any florist is delighted to provide, hopefully with several matching companion pieces to further set the mood—and spike up the tab.

  Florists and funeral homes generally enjoy an amicable relationship, since funeral orders comprise the bulk of any florist’s day-to-day business and provide a consistent month-to-month cash flow. But some florists are more principled than others. Competing florists have tried to woo me by offering roses to my wife, fruit baskets, or a free spray for every large order I provide. The florist’s eternal hope is that the family who runs the funeral home will call for flowers for themselves, and perhaps add those on to a casket spray and its companions. In other words, that way the florist doesn’t need to worry about sending a bill and then trying in vain for months to collect on it—he or she will get paid on time from the funeral home.

  I have attempted to place an order on a family’s behalf, only to be turned down when I requested that the florist bill the family directly. Othe
r pain-in-the-neck florists call me for funeral information when they could just as easily open a newspaper. If I were a florist and the majority of my business consisted of providing flowers to funeral homes, then I would certainly subscribe to all the local papers and scan the obituaries daily. Not only could I quickly confirm the visitation and funeral times, but I could also note the correct spelling of the deceased’s name. Families who have to find their loved one’s name misspelled on a sympathy card have just one more painful thorn in their side.

  There are also rude delivery people who enter through the funeral home’s front door during services already in progress with a late bouquet, waltz right into the chapel, and loudly announce their presence. There is no excuse for this. Most funeral homes have a backdoor flower drop-off that they check frequently.

  Back in the early 1970s, people sent many more flowers to honor the deceased. Whether he or she was twenty-nine or ninety-nine, the fresh, sweet fragrance of flowers always filled the chapel. We used a panel truck back then (now a minivan) to transport cemetery pieces to the grave site before the funeral procession arrived—typically, cut flowers arranged in papier-mâché baskets or plastic buckets, as opposed to the more elaborate (and fragile) live plants, glass vases, and dish gardens—and our vehicle was always stuffed to the gills.

  Today, the quantity of bouquets and arrangements sent is significantly reduced. Friends and even relatives seem to be pooling their resources and going in together on a single basket—so instead of one name on the attached card, there are now seven or eight. Also, today people often send donations to charity in lieu of flowers. There are still a few, though, who give to a charity and purchase a basket, perhaps so they can point out to assembled mourners, “Those are the flowers we sent.”

  I can hardly believe, however, the conflicts that can arise over funeral blooms, and they’re usually from shirttail relatives or people not even related to the deceased. On many occasions, I have had to physically restrain individuals from snatching up live plants and rose-filled vases while the casket is still proceeding out of the chapel. My duty is to deliver the cemetery pieces first, then later the keepers—healthy plants, vases, silk arrangements, and the like—to the family residence. The husband, wife, parents, and grown children should rightfully decide what is to be done with them. But when I question a nonrelative attempting to carry away a floral piece, I often receive a puzzling response: “These are the flowers from my work, and I want them.”

  I have unsuccessfully tried to explain that, yes, your place of employment may have sent those flowers—but not for your enjoyment. Instead, they were sent as an expression of sympathy to the family. I guess I have yet to compose the ideal reprimand, because I’m so often answered with yet another shameless remark.

  DID HE REALLY JUST SAY THAT?

  People say things inside funeral homes that they would never say anywhere else in polite society. They’ll walk up to a casket with the family of the deceased standing nearby and make remarks like, “Gee, Bert sure wasted away to nothing, didn’t he?” Or “How did they get Aunt Jean into that casket, with a shoehorn? She sure gained a lot of weight.”

  That foot-in-mouth syndrome occurs less often when the deceased is elderly. People seem slightly more comfortable in dealing with the death of an aged loved one—someone who clearly lived a long life, accomplished much, and has gone on to his or her just reward. Otherwise, visitors are so unhinged with the notion of death and the circumstances of their visit that odd utterances just seem to pop out. It’s a defense mechanism of sorts, and summoning the right words can be difficult. So I try to give people the benefit of the doubt whenever I hear insensitive comments or spot rude actions. Death is a shock—we don’t understand it, and we are never sure exactly what to say to a grieving family. The younger the deceased person is, the less comfortable everyone is. People who die younger than the age of fifty often denote tragedy—a spouse and children left behind, along with many unfulfilled dreams and stunned friends.

  Common sense, however, should prevail. I have heard visitors ask in loud, booming voices how the person died. At the visitation of an auto accident victim, people will inquire whether the deceased was decapitated. When a family opts for a closed casket, perhaps because of severe trauma or because that may have been the deceased’s wish, there are those who have the gall to ask why. Some even leave abruptly, muttering, “If I had known the casket would be closed, I wouldn’t have come tonight.”

  Suicide cases, always jarring, somehow seem to bring out an even darker, crueler mentality. I have overheard utterly classless individuals ask the family how the deceased did “it”: “How many pills did she take?” or “Did he really put the shotgun right into his mouth?”

  TO THE CEMETERY…

  The funeral procession itself can be an emotional land mine. It is usually arranged in the order of immediate survivors: the spouse, the children, the grandchildren, brothers and sisters, and other relatives and friends. Special parking spaces are reserved for the immediate family, and the rest available are on a first-come, first-served basis.

  Several times each year, conflicts develop over where certain parties should be placed in the procession. I’ve heard many great territorial claims, most along the lines of “I need to be up front; I was his favorite cousin,” even if it means riding ahead of a son or daughter. I usually compile a passenger car list as part of the funeral arrangement process, with the order approved in advance by the immediate family. Usually telling a disgruntled mourner that this is in fact the way the family wants the cars lined up quells any disturbance.

  The actual funeral procession has become quite an adventure over the years, with passing drivers increasingly preoccupied with their radios, cigarettes, and makeup—combined with today’s even more dangerous pastimes of talking on cell phones and even watching television behind the wheel.

  As the lead car, I have often maneuvered a hearse into an intersection only to be greeted by angry motorists who give me the finger for holding them up. During mild weather months, with windows open, I’ve had to listen to some pretty colorful and profane diatribes. The average driver often fails to realize that a funeral procession enjoys the legal right of way and takes precedence over any other vehicle except an emergency one with its lights on. Failure to yield to a funeral procession is a costly moving violation.

  I attempt to give as much instruction as possible beforehand to those participating in the procession. I recommend that they turn on their headlights and follow the car ahead of them as closely as safety permits. “Think of it as a parade,” I say. Alas, most procession drivers are either too upset by the circumstances or choose not to listen. They lag far behind, which makes for a dangerous situation when they approach a cross street.

  Since the grave site is usually the last place where all bereaved family members gather, that is also the place where family conflicts come to a head. A few years ago, I arrived at the cemetery for the burial of the father of two sons. The sons could not stand each other. Neither spoke to the other at the visitation or service. The older one, who had arranged for and paid the funeral bill, requested that I give him the guest registration book, but then the younger one approached me at the cemetery and demanded it.

  When I informed him that it was usual to present the book to the person who had paid, he produced a handgun, pointed it at me, and asked for the register book again. I immediately complied with his request and handed it over. I then informed the armed man that I would be happy to return to the funeral home and photocopy the pages for him instead. He agreed, apologized, and put away the gun.

  It’s not just brothers who act up. A deceased woman was the mother of seven daughters and five sons. Family closeness was severely tested when the youngest daughter had divorced her husband and began a new union as a lesbian. The evening of the mother’s visitation proved a strain, with all eleven siblings making derogatory remarks to their sister and her new partner.

  The tenseness continued the fol
lowing day during the funeral ceremony. Not only was the daughter not permitted to sit in the front row with her siblings; her oldest sister began making threats to her sister’s partner. We arrived at the cemetery, listened to the minister’s words, and proceeded to our respective vehicles. That’s when the fireworks started. The oldest sister strode up to her sister’s partner and attempted to tackle her. But since the partner was bigger and more athletic, she quickly pummeled the sister into submission—to the amazement of the gathered mourners and myself.

  One winter day a few years ago, a large crowd gathered at the graveside of a deceased young man who had accidentally overdosed on various painkillers. Before the minister was able to speak, two inebriated females began to argue. One was a former girlfriend, and the other, his current one. One accused the other of providing the young man with the lethal concoction that ultimately took his life. As blows began, it was obvious to both battling parties that neither was particularly accurate with punches. So they both reached down to the snow-covered grass and began to pack snowballs to hurl at each other.

  Unfortunately, their aim was off as well, so more than a few bystanders were struck in the crossfire. The minister was so disgusted that he quietly departed, leaving me to say a few words over the deceased man’s grave.

  Drug abuse deaths and their commonality have confounded me for years—not the intentional overdoses, but the accidental overdoses of methadone, cocaine, methamphetamines, and OxyContin. A young couple was recently found dead in their home, both victims of a heroin overdose—I had naively assumed that heroin usage was a 1960s relic. The young couple had left behind three school-age children, whom a loving aunt was to care for.