by Todd Harra
I invariably hear this after someone finds out that I’m in the funeral business. People are insatiably curious about the dead and those who work around them. Of course, I would hate to disappoint anyone, so I happily share the most outlandish, ridiculous thing that has ever happened to me in my life. It’s the tale of a dead Jesuit priest and it’s usually told in bars.
The funeral home I used to work for was located near a Jesuit-run high school. We had a contract with the order to provide funeral services when one of its members died.
Let me give you a little background. The Jesuits are a religious order of the Roman Catholic Church, formed in the 16th century by Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Their members can be found in over 100 countries, where they are associated with higher learning and run a number of high schools and universities.
My adventure began when one of the priests, who we’ll call “Father Iggy” in honor of the founder of the order, died. Father Iggy was an English teacher at the high school who coached a number of sports teams and was a generally upstanding guy. The students loved and respected him as a teacher, coach, and mentor, and former students routinely called upon him to perform their weddings. From what I heard, Father Iggy was also an active volunteer in the community and was recognized by the Pope himself for his service. When he died, I was assigned to handle his funeral.
I had handled several big ceremonies and was confident in my ability to handle the services for a well-known priest.
I did the removal from the rectory and embalmed Father Iggy. The following day I met with the senior priest and set the details of the funeral: an evening viewing in the church, Mass of Christian Burial the following day, and burial in the local Catholic cemetery.
On the morning of the viewing, a couple of Jesuits came over and we dressed Father Iggy in the priest’s traditional black cassock. I applied the barest traces of makeup on his face to give him a little ruddiness and put him in the most economical casket available. Our “cloth covered casket,” or “minimum casket,” is basically fiberboard covered with black felt called doeskin. Because of their vow of poverty, priests are laid to rest in our most basic casket. The black doeskin represents the color of the Jesuit cassock.
In addition to being minimalistic, priests’ caskets differ from others in that they have removable lids that allow the entire body to be seen, instead of just the upper-half, as is more typical. The design allows for two lines of people to file by during the viewing instead of just one. Priests usually have well-attended viewings and funerals.
I unscrewed the lid’s hinges before placing Father Iggy in the casket. Without a hitch, I transported the deceased priest to church and laid him out in the sanctuary for the viewing. The pews were rearranged to let the two lines of people file by. That evening, over eight hundred friends and acquaintances came to pay their respects.
The next day, the church was packed—standing room only. The school had the day off in observance of Father Iggy’s passing. Current students, former students, parents, members of the church, employees of the diocese, and fellow priests choked the pews and aisles.
At the proper time, I wheeled the now-closed casket into the vestibule and gathered the pallbearers to give them their instructions. On the stroke of ten, the officiating priests blessed the casket and the white cloth, or the “pall,” was placed. As the priests processed up the aisle, I signaled the pallbearers to lift the casket off the small cart called the “church truck” and carry it to its place at the front of the sanctuary. Generally we roll the casket up the aisle on the church truck, but the senior priest wanted the pallbearers to be more than ceremonial, so they carried it.
Everything went as planned until the casket reached the second pew from the front. A loud, ominous cracking sound ushered in an unsightly scene as the bottom of the casket fell out. Down with it fell Father Iggy. He hit the marble floor with an undignified thump. The crowd’s collective gasp echoed through the vaulted eaves. The pallbearers, still holding the handles of the pall-covered casket, stood dumbstruck staring down at the floor, where Father Iggy still clutched his ceremonial chalice.
I knew I had to take charge—fast.
I pushed the pallbearers to the front of the sanctuary and instructed them to lay the shell down. I shooed out the priests who occupied the front pew and asked the pallbearers to pick up Father Iggy and place him on the bench. The pallbearers were in such a state of panic that they didn’t hesitate.
Next I had the pallbearers create a human shield to spare the mourners the macabre sight of the dead man lying on the front pew. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to be scared. I motioned one of my colleagues over and told him to go back to the funeral home for a new casket as quickly as possible.
While he rushed away, I dragged the remnants of the broken casket to the rear of the church. Fortunately, the funeral home was just down the block, and the new casket arrived in minutes. With as much dignity as we could muster, the pallbearers and I placed Father Iggy into his new casket and re-draped the pall. The service proceeded without further incident, but as a precaution, meaning no disrespect to the senior priest, I had the pallbearers wheel Father Iggy out on the church truck instead of carrying him.
The most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life was to walk out of that church with Father Iggy, knowing that every pair of eyes in the congregation was fixed on me—and every mind was wondering, what kind of funeral home allows a priest to fall out of his casket?
I later figured out what caused Father Iggy’s second coming. The “minimum caskets” are held together at the joints by wooden dowels and glue. Our company policy was to order the minimum caskets in bulk to receive a discount. Father Iggy’s first casket had probably been stored in the basement so long that the glue had dried out—and the joints had come apart from the weight of his body.
After the “Father Iggy Incident,” as it came to be known, there was no more ordering in bulk.
CHAPTER 30
The Dove
Contributed by an amateur surfer
One day I killed a dove—a beautiful, innocent white dove. The symbol of innocence and purity—and I murdered it. Normally, I release them at graveside services, but not on this day. Instead of releasing the bird as a symbol of the deceased’s freed soul, I unceremoniously stomped it. Now, before you start calling me a sadist or sociopath or report me to PETA, let me tell you of the events leading up to the slaying. It went something like this:
I was driving the hearse for a dead man whose funeral arrangements I had made. I was to lead the funeral procession from the funeral home, where the services had been, to the cemetery. Before we left, the wife pitched me an unusual request: Could she accompany her husband on his last ride? In some areas of the country I understand it is common practice for the deceased’s spouse to ride in the hearse with the funeral director, but it is uncommon in my area.
“I’d be happy to have you accompany me and your late husband,” I told the widow.
I rode in uneasy stillness with this very WASPy woman wearing her wide brimmed ’40s style hat. In the stagnant, plastic-smelling car air, the silence was so thick I could almost cut it with a dull knife. Normally, I am very easygoing around the bereaved families I serve, and I had been comfortable with this widow until the moment she got into the hearse with me. But now I felt like I was fifteen all over again, learning to drive with my mother in the other seat stamping on her imaginary brake every three seconds. With every bump, every abrupt stop or acceleration, I felt her watching me, evaluating me, judging me. I was so preoccupied with driving perfectly that I nearly missed a couple of turns.
I’m sure the woman had so many emotions overwhelming her that she couldn’t even function normally, but the situation was nerve-wracking for me. We were almost at our destination, when the unthinkable happened.
I pulled through the giant stone pillars of the Rest Haven Cemetery and a large dove flapped down from one of the pillars and landed right in front of the h
earse. I braked hard and came to a near standstill. The beautiful bird in the road seemed not to care that a giant, smoke-belching beast was heading straight for it. I inched forward, riding the brake, and nudged the Federal Coach to the right and partially up onto the grass. Wouldn’t you know that that bird walked to the right?
I slammed on the brakes and winced. I could feel the widow’s disapproving glare as she watched the saga unfold in front of her. I could almost hear her inner voice shout at me: Can’t you even outwit a bird? My husband is in the back, dead! I cranked the wheel all the way to the left and eased off the brake. Of course, to spite me, the dove walked left.
The limousine carrying the rest of the family was right behind me, so I couldn’t back up. I was trapped. I made a game time decision. I decided to get out and shoo the bird away. I threw the hearse in park and got out. The bird, seemingly unconcerned by my presence, walked away from me and into the grass. There, I thought, that ought to take care of him. I hopped back into the hearse, and back into the roadway the dove walked.
That’s it, I thought, if I just move the hearse up, it’ll be smart enough to fly away. So, my foot on the brake, I steered the hearse closer and closer and closer… and I hit the bird. In the silence of the hearse the squawking of the injured dove was loud, very loud.
I winced.
The widow winced.
What could I do? I drove forward.
In the rearview mirror I watched as the bird, with a wing obviously broken, flapped about on the pavement briefly before the limousine crushed it. The widow jumped when the squawking suddenly ceased with a loud crunch. And I watched further as each of the thirty cars in the procession ran over the carcass.
While I’m not the one who actually killed the dove, a lawyer might say the extent of my culpability was “reckless endangerment.” Regardless of the legalities of who actually killed the bird, I was treated to the widow’s withering stare the whole time the minister committed her husband’s body to the ground.
CHAPTER 31
A Hug, a Hope
Contributed by a professional speaker
It was the middle of winter. The type of day when the grass is frozen and crunches underfoot, but the sun shines brightly and there’s not a cloud to be seen. The type of day when the wind blows just enough to remind you winter is still there, but the sunshine, courting favor with the cold, reminds you spring is only around the corner. I was young, just starting my apprenticeship, standing, hands buried deep in my woolen topcoat, neck compressed into a scarf, watching the men from the vault company do their somber work.
The tent flapped in the breeze as the two men sealed the concrete vault and cranked the entire package into the yawning hole cut into the earth. The congregation had long since gone to their luncheon to laugh, reminisce, eat and maybe drink. I had chosen to stay and watch. I didn’t inspect their work, but observed it like a voyeur. As the men broke down the bier, I caught the eye of a woman standing a stone’s throw away at another headstone. She turned away quickly but then looked again as if she was gaining her courage.
The next time I looked, she was staring at me. It was a blatant, open stare that some might call curious and some rude. But by the look in her eyes I could tell it was neither.
I went over to where she was standing.
“Can I help you with something?” I asked, and flashed a smile. The woman was dressed professionally, like a businesswoman on her lunch break. She was middle-aged and pleasant looking. She had kind, soft eyes. The wrinkles around them told a harder, different story.
“I—You look—” Her breaths gave off puffs of steam as she spoke. “Never mind,” she finished lamely.
I looked at the grave where she stood. The headstone had a man’s name on it. He had died very young, I noted. He had been my age. “Your son?”
She bit her bottom lip and nodded. We stood in silence for a few moments. “I miss him. I miss him so much,” she simply stated. “He was such a good kid. Our first—” She put her chin on her chest to collect herself. “Somebody ran a red light. It was… the middle of the day. Nobody was drunk or anything. He was just at the wrong intersection that day.”
She shook her head as if confused while staring at the headstone, and then looked at me ruefully. “I’m sorry—”
I cut her off. “Don’t be.”
She knelt down and traced the name engraved into the granite while talking to me. She must have gone on for five minutes or more about how much she missed her son. I listened. When she was done with her monologue she asked, “May I give you a hug?”
Without hesitation I answered, “Sure.”
We embraced and I felt her crying softly. When she let go, she stepped back and said, “Thank you for that. You remind me so much of him. Kind. Polite. Well mannered. Your mother must be so proud of you. I—I needed a hug from my son today. Thank you for giving me that.”
I never did ask her name, and she never asked mine. We parted ways and I haven’t seen her since.
You can touch someone’s life in a profound way every day if you just slow down and recognize the opportunity.
Give someone a hug. Give someone hope.
CHAPTER 32
Wake Combat
Contributed by a collegiate swimmer
There’s something about a funeral that makes it the perfect venue for a fight. I’ve seen all sorts of different fights take place at my funeral home, from little verbal skirmishes to knockdown, drag-out fistfights. I’ve even had to hire security (at the behest of the family) to keep the peace.
Money. Lovers. Attention. The list of things that families fight about is endless, but instead of facing the problems as they come, most people choose to bottle it up and wait. The pressure builds and a death in the family can cause the pot to boil over.
The most violent fight I can remember is one that happened years ago. I can’t remember the name of the family, but I remember the two sons of the dead man as vividly as I can picture my own sons. It was an Irish family. They had a McSomething type name. The two sons, Brian and James, came in to make the funeral arrangements without their mother. She was too distraught over the death of her husband to come in. The man was in his late forties and the death was entirely unexpected.
The boys were in their late twenties. I couldn’t tell if they were twins or not. They looked an awful lot alike except Brian was slightly taller than James and had a large scar over his right eye.
The brothers came into my office, sat down, lit up, and immediately started in at each other. They were heavy smokers, and I wasn’t an hour into the arrangements before the ashtray on my desk was full of cigarette butts stubbed out in anger. They used the gesture of stubbing out a cigarette like an exclamation point at the end of a sentence, getting louder and more animated as our arrangement conference progressed. They couldn’t agree on anything. The air was blue and thick with language and smoke.
The brothers’ anger grew with the pile of stubbed butts until the ashtray couldn’t hold one more butt. Brian screamed some obscenities at his brother and stormed out. Over the next two days I played mediator and got them to agree, for the sake of their mother, on a funeral that suited everyone.
In those days the world wasn’t so “sue-happy” and I allowed booze in my funeral home. It was the typical Irish wake. They brought all sorts of food and drink and partied for most of the evening with music, singing, joking, and carrying on—the dead man lying in the parlor almost an afterthought. It was a big crowd, and the two brothers were pretty well behaved except for some yelling and pushing that was quickly broken up by friends. But they kept their distance from each other for the entire night. The wake ended and everyone left the party in good, drunken spirits.
The next morning the brothers showed up separately. Brian came first, escorting his mother. He reeked of cigarettes and whiskey and looked the part, too. He obviously hadn’t shaved or combed his hair, and his eyes were bloodshot and had the look of a hunted animal about them. I escorted them i
nto the private family room, got them settled, and greeted the rest of the guests as they arrived. James arrived much later wearing the same clothes he had worn the previous evening. He obviously hadn’t been home. He too reeked of rye, and attached to his arm was a garishly dressed young lady whom he introduced to me as his girlfriend.
I escorted James and his girlfriend to the family room and outlined to the McSomething family how things would go that day so we would all be on the same page. Immediately, the two brothers started verbally sparring. I tried to nip it in the bud by saying, “Gents, could you please just behave today for the sake of your mother and in memory of your dead father?” That seemed to work. They stopped arguing and merely glowered at each other. Their mother sat silent, looking shell-shocked. I got the family seated right before service time and gave a colleague the task of getting the funeral started; I had other plans.
While the service was going on I wanted to embalm a body that had come in during the night. I went into the basement, where the prep room is, took off my coat and tie, put on a gown and pair of gloves. I knew that if I hurried I would be able to get done before the service ended and go back upstairs to say goodbye to everyone. It was wintertime, and in my area of the country you can’t bury in the winter. Everyone gets stored in a vault until the spring thaw, which sometimes doesn’t come until early June. I had just gotten the body undressed and was giving it a preliminary wash when the entire funeral home shook like it had been hit by a plane. BOOM!
I tore off my gloves and gown and rushed upstairs in my shirt-sleeves to find a circle of people in the parlor yelling and screaming. I pushed my way to the center of the circle to find James standing over Brian. Brian was laid out on the floor, blood gushing from his nose. As I floundered into the circle James yelled, “Don’t talk about my girl like that!” He circled his motionless opponent, shaking his bloody fist and ranting like a madman.
