by Todd Harra
Working around death has given me a greater appreciation for life, because everyday I have to face that final stage, while most people choose to ignore it. Our lives are finite; there are graveyards filled with immortals. So live each day to its fullest, because you never know if it’s your last sunset.
This section is about planning the funeral service called, the “arrangement conference.” The funeral service (or memorial service) is about honoring a life lived, and I believe it is a necessary ceremony for each and every human being. Its an acknowledgment that, “Hey, that person was unique and special in some way.”
In addition to the exacting situations we encounter during the funeral arrangements conference, we encounter people who are in the grips of strong emotions. Ken and I had one funeral director submit to us the story of a customer who nearly killed him during the conference. After you read it you’ll understand why I emailed this gentleman back and asked him if he receives combat pay.
In this section we also cover a couple of the more outlandish questions/requests that have come up during the arrangement conference. Not too long ago I was giving a presentation in my cousin’s sixth grade class on ancient burial customs. After I had given my spiel and opened up the floor for questions a little boy raised his hand and asked me, “Do you bury people naked?” Caught off guard, I stammered a bit, and my mind raced to the story in this section—I was actually doing final edits on it at the time. I answered truthfully. “I’ve never seen it,” I told him, “but as a matter of fact, I have heard of it being done!”
Heartrending workdays, killer customers, nude burials, yeah, it’s all in a day’s work.
CHAPTER 20
Lesson: Never Go to Bed Angry
Contributed by an urban spelunker
A woman came to the funeral home one day with the most heartbreaking story I have ever heard. Being a newly married man, I could empathize with what had transpired earlier in the week in Maddison’s life because we were both newlyweds. Do you recall that old adage, “Never go to bed angry?” Maddison’s story put a new spin on that axiom.
I’m thirty years old and have been working in this profession since my early teens. I started out washing cars and cutting the lawn for a little extra cash in high school, and the career kind of grew on me. In my spare time I spelunk; it is also known as vadding, building hacking, or draining. I’ve spelunked all over America and in Europe and South America, too. People ask me what an urban spelunker is. I tell them I explore abandoned factories, hospitals, rail stations, missile silos, and housing. I love seeing what was. The past. History.
I’ve been married eight months. The only real thing my wife and I have ever fought about is vadding. Granted, it’s an extremely dangerous sport, but I love it. I have, however, since made some concessions in my spelunking because of Maddison. No marriage is perfect. You’re going to fight, and if it’s not about money then it’ll be about something. In the past 244 days, or eight months, my wife and I have gone to bed a handful of times angry at each other, but after I met Maddison, I’ll never go to bed angry ever again.
Maddison came to the funeral home on a Friday, numb with shock. Her husband had died suddenly.
Maddison’s mother came in with her, and once I got them seated at the conference table, I poured them each a glass of water and pushed a box of tissues closer to them. Maddison ripped out three or four and dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes. Her mother looked a little worse for the wear; I imagined they had a rough night.
I introduced myself. “My name is Damian. I’m sorry about your husband, but he’s in good hands. I’ll take excellent care of him.”
Maddison sniffed. She tried to force a smile but failed. I understood.
I wanted to get her and her mother loosened up a little to start them talking. It helps start the grieving process, and makes them feel safer with me. “So, how long were you married to,” I consulted my notes, “Payton?”
Maddison blew her nose and took a tiny sip of water. “Pay and I have been married three years. We went to college together. We didn’t date there. We actually never even met in college. Pay had to drop out his last year when his father died. He had to take over running the garage. It wasn’t until after, when I moved back to the area, we kind of—discovered each other. Three years later he proposed.”
Her mother squeezed her hand in encouragement.
“What garage?” I asked.
“European Specialists, over on Second Street.”
“No kidding? My wife has an old, run-out Bimmer she takes there,” I said.
Silence. Maddison half-smiled at me. I could tell the memory of the garage hurt.
I changed subjects. “Where do you work?”
“The bank. Sun Trust. I’m a loan officer… have you heard anything—” She choked off the end of her sentence. I knew what she was trying to say.
“I talked to the ME’s office before you arrived. The investigator told me off the record they suspect he died of a brain aneurysm. That kind of problem is usually very sudden. There is sometimes no warning.”
Maddison burst into tears. Her mother held her, and I sat in silence studying my notes. After a minute or two she stopped. “Tuesday night we fought. We rarely fight, but when we do it’s always about money. Money!” she spat and paused. I nodded for her to continue. “Pay was thinking about expanding the garage. Big project, but I wanted to start a family. We have no children, just a boxer. I told him we couldn’t afford the expansion if we were going to have kids now. I was planning on staying home with the kids. Anyhow, we fought for a long time and Pay went to sleep in the spare bedroom.”
She gulped down half of the water in her glass and looked at me steadily. “I let him go. Sometimes it’s best that way. The next morning—that would be Wednesday morning—I slipped a note under the door saying if he wasn’t mad at me anymore then that night we’d go to our favorite spot for dinner. It’s this romantic Italian bistro in the city we can walk to from our townhouse. We like to go there on special occasions; it’s so quaint and perfect. Pay proposed to me there.”
I could tell she enjoyed that memory.
“I had a meeting that night and knew I would be real late getting home. The note also said—” She glanced at her mother and blushed. “It also said if we went to the restaurant then I’d give him his favorite dessert.”
I figured the dessert wasn’t food. Maddison’s mom seemed oblivious to the connotation.
“That was our kind of way of mending fences.”
I nodded.
Maddison continued, “That night on my way home I was thinking Pay would be waiting for me as I walked through the door—all showered up, smelling of his cologne, and maybe he’d even have a bottle of red open so we could have a glass before we went out. He’s sweet like that. We never stay mad at each other for very long. When I got home the house was completely dark, the spare bedroom door was still shut and our dog was sitting in front of the door like he was guarding it. I thought, Fine, if he wants to be an asshole and let this continue, then I can too. I took the dog out, fixed myself a Lean Cuisine, and went to bed without ever bothering to knock on Pay’s door.”
Maddison paused and squeezed her mother’s hand. “So anyway, I get up for work—this is Thursday, yesterday—and the spare bedroom door is still shut. Pay usually got up and went to the garage pretty early, but I thought that maybe he wanted to avoid me, so I took the dog out, got ready for work, and left.”
She drank the rest of her water, started to hyperventilate, but quickly got herself under control to finish her story. “When I got home and the door was shut, I started to get worried. It wasn’t like him to not talk to me for two whole days! I went and knocked on the door. No answer. I decided to go in and I opened the door—” She broke down sobbing. Her mother put her arm around Maddison’s shoulders and massaged them. Maddison continued, “There he was—”
I sat there stunned while Maddison wept. I had heard a lot of tales come across this table, but this
one was probably one of the more heart-wrenching. The guy was my age! I shuffled my papers and avoided eye contact, giving her a minute, but she wasn’t finished.
“But—but next to him on the bed was the phone book… open to the restaurant section in the yellow pages!”
My head swam.
I guided them through the funeral arrangements. It would be awhile before the initial numbness wore off, maybe even until after the funeral. I told them what they needed to do, where they needed to be, and wrote down everything for them. They were going through the motions, just trying to get through each minute to greet the next and see if it brought less pain. The office air hung heavy with unrealized dreams, guilt, and the bitterest remorse I have ever witnessed.
When Maddison and her mom left, I called my wife. When she answered I told her without preamble, “I love you.”
“What was that for?” she asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it when I get home,” I promised.
Maddison’s story really put my marriage in a new perspective. I still do some easy building hacks from time to time because I love it, but I’d like to think I have my priorities in line now. And I tell my wife every night before I fall asleep, no matter how angry I am with her, that I love her because you never know when that time will be the last.
And there will be a last.
CHAPTER 21
Buried in the Nude
Contributed by a church choir member
When it comes to clothing, I’ve run the gamut as an undertaker. I’ve buried people in everything from military service uniforms to tee shirts and cut-off jean shorts. And I’ve buried people nude, or, at least partially nude. From a sociological point of view, I find it interesting to see what a family chooses to bury a loved one in, or what they choose not to bury them in.
I’m a funeral director in South Carolina. In my neck of the woods, as in the other 85 percent of the country, we mainly sell half-couch caskets. The term “half-couch” means that only half of the casket is open, hence only half of the interior “couch” is visible. The half-couch lid is split and the lower portion of the lid covers the decedent from the waist down. I think that’s why I bury so many people—predominately men—partially nude. You know that old adage, “out of sight, out of mind”? The families’ logic seems to be, if you can’t see it, why bother? Most of my families come in to make arrangements with just a shirt, tie, and jacket for their loved ones to wear. No pants. No shoes. No socks. No underwear.
If that’s what the family wants, that’s fine with me, but I strongly believe in giving people some dignity. So, if the family doesn’t bring in underwear, I’ll ask permission to supply a pair. Most people agree to my suggestion. That wasn’t the case with Mrs. Peterson.
Mrs. Peterson made a grand entrance into the conference room, a half-hour late, red-faced, and breathless. She hefted her considerable bulk into the chair, after pumping my hand vigorously while apologizing repeatedly for being late.
I assured her that her tardiness was not an issue and offered my condolences for her husband’s death.
“He didn’t take real good care of his-self,” she said nonchalantly, drawing a cigarette out of a battered pack with her lips.
I looked at my worksheet. Mr. Peterson was 64. Relatively young. “At least you had many good years of marriage—”
She cupped her hands, fired her lighter, and waved dismissively at me. “Ain’t no need for that, Hun,” she said, interrupting. “He is dead. I knew it was coming; I ain’t out of sorts.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Let’s get started.”
Mrs. Peterson was obviously a salt-of-the-earth type person. I liked her matter-of-fact attitude, although she had the tendency to be a bit abrasive. I could tell she drank too much, smoked too much, ate too much, didn’t get offended by anything (especially bad language because she used an awful lot of it), and really didn’t care what people thought of her.
During the course of the conference I gathered the biographical information on Mr. Peterson so I could file the death certificate; we picked out service folders, arranged for a minister, and Mrs. Peterson picked out a nice russet colored twenty-gauge steel casket half-couch. Then she unloaded a canvas bag she had brought in with her. Lynyrd Skynyrd CDs to be played at the visitation; a pack of Marlboro red cigarettes, a can of Budweiser, and a bottle of gin to go in with Mr. Peterson, along with his favorite John Deere hat and his fuzzy slippers.
Next, she pulled out a wrinkled dress shirt and a thin tie. “Mandy, lay him out in this,” she told me, handing the hanger across the desk. “He never did wear a tie much, but I think he should look proper.”
I took the clothes and hung them on the doorknob. They obviously hadn’t seen an iron in ages. It wasn’t at all uncommon for me to get no pants, so I casually asked, “Would you like me to put a pair of boxer shorts on your husband, ma’am?”
“What the hell for?” she asked.
She followed with a coughing bout that nearly dislodged a lung.
“Just to provide him with a dignified burial. So he doesn’t have to meet his maker without drawers. I’d be happy to do it.”
She coughed again, and this time I know a piece of lung came up. “Hell no! Jim preferred to be nude. He sat around without his pants on most of the time anyway. Nude. All the time, just wore an undershirt and those slippers.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Now young lady,” Mrs. Peterson said and wagged her finger at me, “I’m going to be checkin’ to make sure my Jim ain’t got drawers on. I swear that man never wore his pants, ’cept when he had to leave the house. He lived that way so he’s going to be buried that way.” She started laughing and coughing at the same time. I wasn’t sure which one precipitated the other. When she got herself under control she said, “In fact, Jim often said—” She lost herself in another coughing/laughing fit. “Jim often said he wanted to be buried like that outlaw, you know, the one that said, ‘I want to be buried face down so the whole world can kiss my ass.’” She looked at the ceiling as though revisiting a fond memory. “Yeah, he liked that, but I’m not going to do that. I’m just going to bury him the way he lived.”
“I understand,” I said. “My boyfriend is the same way.”
“See,” Mrs. Peterson said. “Men.” She cackled. “They’re all the same.”
I laughed too. “I guess they are.”
That was that. Mrs. Peterson and I bade our goodbyes.
I pressed Mr. Peterson’s shirt and dressed him in it, as well as the tie and slippers and John Deere hat, nothing else.
Three days later I watched Mr. Peterson being lowered into the ground, clad only from the waist up. Mrs. Peterson wept something terrible.
Later that night when I told my boyfriend about Mrs. Peterson’s last wish for her husband, he scratched his chin and said, “She might be on to something there, but I’d one-up him. Forget the shirt and tie, I want to be totally buck naked.”
CHAPTER 22
Walk the Walk
Contributed by a dog lover
A few months ago I learned in the true sense the meaning of undertaker. The word for the profession historically describes the fact that the town cabinetmaker would undertake the responsibilities of caring for the dead. The profession grew from those humble origins and the name stuck. I’m not sure why—other professions undertook tasks—but it did. I didn’t truly appreciate the value of an undertaking because today we now have the nice sanitary title of funeral director. But a few months ago I undertook for the first time.
It happened when I made funeral arrangements with an English woman named Abby. I’d judge Abby to be in her late forties, young to be a widow. Her husband, Greg, had worked for one of the big financial houses. They had met and fallen in love in London while he was working overseas, and when Greg had been transferred back to America she had followed. They married shortly thereafter. This was, according to Abby, “Over twenty years ago.” Long enough that America was her ho
me now—she was a citizen—but not long enough for her to become completely assimilated into American culture.
Abby looked very English: round, pleasant face framed by a thick mane of straight brown hair she kept cropped neatly at shoulder length. She was thin, yet looked soft, and I imagine she kept her weight down by her “fag habit,” as she called it. We Americans would call it a smoking addiction. Abby chain-smoked the entire time she was in my office.
Abby had a very continental attitude about Greg’s death, and by that I mean she was very matter-of-fact. She told me between puffs on her Woodbine cigarettes that Greg’s death hadn’t been sudden. He had been chronically ill for some time. I could tell that she had come to grips with losing him a long time ago; what we were doing in my office was merely a formality. I have to admit, Abby had quite a stiff upper lip, and she sure hadn’t lost her Cockney accent in the twenty years she had been in America. I spent most of our meeting trying to figure out what she was saying.
“Now Dere’, I’ll be expec’ing bof ’e ’earse and limo to pi’ us up a’ ’e ’ouse.”
In my mind I had to translate what she said. It took a moment for me to sort out the jumbled syllables and insert the missing consonants before I got: “Now Derek, I’ll be expecting both the hearse and limo to pick us up at the house.”
“You want the hearse and limousine to pick you up at your house?” I asked carefully, so as not to offend her, yet puzzled by her request.
“Of course. It’s normal in Britain to have the hearse and limousine pick up the immediate family at the house. My mum and dad are flying across the pond for the occasion. They were quite fond of Greg, you know.”
I paused to translate and think before I replied. “I think I’ll be able to make that happen for you.”
“Splendid!” she said and clapped her hands together softly. “We’ll also be needing a walker.”
