Funeral Humor

The family was early and the funeral home was late.  By the time I showed up a scene was brewing, temperatures were rising and no one was thinking.  Mom had been cremated but the sexton dug a full grave opening.  There was a six foot drop and everyone wanted to know how Mom was going to be put in the hole.

Several ideas came to mind.  Do we just drop her in and hope she doesn't spill out?  Do we have someone jump in the hole to place her gently?  What about a ladder?  But each idea was kiboshed by the "someone will be traumatized" argument.  After all, who wants to remember a day because they had to climb into Mom's grave?

So I approached the sexton, a rather humorless fellow, who sat quietly in his truck within earshot, not saying a word.  "Can't we just cut a shelf at the head of the grave so I can place her?"  "Sorry," he said with a tone that was far more patronizing than apologetic, "but I'd have to charge the family for another grave opening."  "There's a shovel right in the back of your truck.  I'll just dig it myself."  "I can't let you do that, sir.  Too many roots.  You might hurt yourself."  "But can't you see that this isn't going to work?  The family is here to grieve, and you created this problem..." but before I could finish, he just rolled up his window and turned on the radio.

Meanwhile the kids in the family were out looking for rope.  Whether it was to tie around Mom and lower her in or to tie around their waist to hoist them back out I can't be certain.  I decided to try again with Mr. Lifeless and knocked on his window.  He turned the radio down, not off, and rolled the window half-way and blew smoke in my general direction.

"I get it that this is about money.  Listen.  You'd have to fill in the grave anyway, right?"  Reluctant agreement seemed to be acknowledged in the form of a slight head bob counterweighted by a solid sideways glance.  "So why not fill in the hole now?  That way I won't have subject their mother to an atomic drop."  "Won't that be traumatizing to the family?"  Like he cared. 

Off he goes, at a snail's pace, to get the equipment.  There were several machines to choose from, but he fired up the articulating front loader with the five yard bucket, jammed it into high gear, and nearly ran over several other stones as he made every effort to be neither subtle nor accurate.  The family huddled at a safe distance.

Finally the funeral home shows up and tries to take over the situation.  The director does triage both for his business and the family.  He puts Mom down on some wooden planks under a tree, grabs me for a quick assessment of the situation, assigns the other men in matching suits with brass nametags to make various phone calls, and slips into the family's huddle to deliver the play.

That's when the sprinklers kicked on.  These aren't typical lawn sprinklers with a gentle rythmic spray.  These shoot inch thick jets over a 50 foot radius.  "Mom's going to wash away!" There was no safe spot.  The director pulled his coat over his head and charged for the cremains which, by the way, took a direct hit and rolled off the planks.  He paused a moment to consider who needed his coat's shielding most - Mom's urn or his combover.  For the first time that day, someone made a smart decision in the moment.

Mr. Lifeless high-tailed it back to the shed to shut off the water, belching a huge plume of black smoke which, of course, kind of settled right in around us.  We coughed and smoothed our clothes and forced a bit of composure, tried to remember why we'd gathered here in the first place, and carefully stepped over puddles around a grave filled askew with random piles of dirt blocking access.

"Dearly beloved...."  We laughed and cried and prayed and sang and did the "ashes to ashes, dust to dust" thing while I'm wondering if I ought to amend it to "mud to mud," but didn't.  Thank God for good decision number two.  At the end I knelt to lower Mom to her resting place, then got on hands and knees because he'd filled the middle more than the edges, and still couldn't quite reach.  Nothing left to do but say a prayer and hope for the best.  She landed softly, albeit a bit crooked, and we said our last goodbyes.