A Funeral

“Do you want to be cremated or buried?” asked my aunt Nina during breakfast.

“I don’t know. I really haven’t thought about it…”

“Lying alone in that coffin just seems so lonely to me.”

“I don’t mind it. But please, just make sure that I’m dead.”

I was raised Catholic and so have attended many open casket funeral services.  I’m not sure about the open casket part.  But being in the ground doesn’t bother me.

Bob was really my step-grandfather, but he was married to my Grandmother for 43 years, sent me gifts and cards every birthday and holiday, and so, in the most important ways, was more of a grandfather to me than my genetic one.  He was a very sweet and wonderful man, but he was also ready to go. So while sad, the event was not tragic. It was just the family part. That’s always the hardest part.

Highlights of the funeral included my Aunt Judy’s eulogy about how I had lost a stack of programs (I had them right next to me) and a discussion about my Grandmother’s ashes.   He was a Catholic and his wife, my grandmother, a Unitarian.  She’d been cremated, but he wanted to be buried.

“We’ll just put a Spoon-Full of  Mom in his breast pocket,” suggested  Judy. She claims he agreed to this arrangement in his final hours.

“Just a spoon-full? Are you sure that’s enough?  What if it doesn’t take?  You might need at least a cup,” I suggested.
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Apparently, adding someone else to the coffin – in whatever measure – costs thousands of dollars, but the mortician let it be a covert operation.

“If you want, you can take some of Mom with you…” Judy later offered.

“Are you sure she wants to be spread around like that?”

She wanted her ashes scattered, but doling her out in spoon-fulls struck me as a little extreme.  It’s made me think a burial might not be so bad. At least you’re in spot.   If you’re divvied up like left overs, where do people go to visit you?

I’m glad I wasn’t a pallbearer.  I watched as my aunts noticeably struggled.  Even my strong young cousin claimed that the coffin was really “heavy.”    It seems dangerous not to have some back up. My Grandfather served in the Coast Guard and two military officers came to perform a military ceremony. Afterwards, we all placed a rose on his casket and threw some Holy Water from a bottle marked “Holy Water.” Where do they get this stuff? Is there a factory?  I imagine an assembly line of bottles passing before a priest blessing each one. Or maybe he does one big vat at a time.  How do you ensure quality control?  I DON’T KNOW FATHER TOM THIS BATCH SEEMS A LITTLE WEAK.

Later, we went out to dinner and celebrated his life and surviving the funeral.

“It’s amazing that everyone is still here,” I said.  I know so many families who have lost people way before their time.

“I know,” said my Aunt Nina. “It’s nothing short of miraculous.”