Funerals By George

 Prologue:  This is (mostly) a repost.  While, in the past, I have waited until his birthday (August 4th) to post this, I decided Father's Day would be more appropriate.  One of the saddest things about being me (except seeing myself naked, of course) is that my biological father was a racist, bigoted oaf.  So, Father's Day has been kind of a mixed bag.  I sincerely wish I could look back on my childhood fondly, comforted that I had a "Dad."  Luckily, though, my brothers, sister, and I had Ray.

 

Happy Father's Day in heaven, Poppy

     Ray, or “Poppy” (as he came to be known), came into our lives when we were children.  Our mother, having grown tired of living with a man who resembled Ralph Kramden, acted like Archie Bunker, and possessed the social skills of Fred Flintstone, secured a divorce and somehow managed to convince this relatively young man that living with five kids really wasn’t much worse than a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands.

It's an old movie, so some of you might not get the reference

    So it went through thick, thin, and adolescence until after the untimely death of our mother, it was Ray to whom we turned as head of the family.

    Even though he remarried a few years later, he was still the glue which held us together.

    He took us to ballgames, gave us advice, provided an anchor through tough times, and was a father to five kids when he didn’t have to be.  

    NOTE:  He also had a daughter of his own.

    He may have thought onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater, but he was our model for manhood.

    When he succumbed to cancer nearly thirty years ago, we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of someone who had guided us into adulthood and sadness that our own children wouldn’t get to know him as we had.

Spoiler:  He did

    As funeral preparations went into high gear, we didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the person we had lost.  Concerned with the how and where (we definitely knew “why”), we began to lose our grip on the “who.”

    During the two-day viewing, my brothers, sister, and I took our proper places in the front row (the only place where being in the “front row” is not a good thing) and paid our respects to all who came to...uh...pay their respects.

    For two hours, we sat quiet as mummies, while mourners shuffled by the open casket.  As they finished, they turned to us, murmuring “I’m sorry,” “He looks so natural,” or some other such platitude before rushing home to watch “Jake and the Fat Man.”

    Needless to say, it was kinda rough.  Enduring the parade of mourners while solemnly staring at someone who looked nowhere near “natural” took its toll.

    The second night was a little different.  Although prepared to be good soldiers throughout the duration, our solemn façades began to break down after the arrival of one of my brother’s old girlfriends.

    I’ve always admired her for showing up.  She didn’t come to see my brother; she came to say goodbye.  This, of course, didn’t stop the quiet smirks.

    Through it all, though, we maintained our composure.

    Until another brother’s old girlfriend showed up.  More smirks.  Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived, smirks became giggles.

    Giggles became whispered jokes.  And whispered jokes became throwing our voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.  This (to us, anyway) was the very best in funeral home comedy.

    As bad as our performances at the “home”, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.

    Starting off with a service at the Episcopalian Church (“Catholic Light”) we ended up at the biggest cemetery in town.

    A military funeral (because he was in the Marines), the service was very dignified and steeped in an appropriate level of sadness.

    At its conclusion, everyone but immediate family withdrew to a cold cuts, beer, and coffee bonanza at the Elks Lodge.

Something about a funeral makes me crave boiled ham on little rolls

    My brothers, my sister, our spouses, and I stared quietly at the casket as it sat suspended over the open vault.  Festooned with an untold number of floral garlands, its mute presence reminded us of our loss.

    It was then I felt a little guilty over our hijinks from the night before.

    As we began to move toward our cars, we heard an almost imperceptible “psst!”  Quickly scanning the cemetery, I didn’t see anything or anyone.  Still looking, we heard it again and spotted a head peering around the side of a tree.

For Entertainment Use Only
Not really.  But you get the point.

    What the-?

    Suddenly, we spotted one of the people we went to high school with, George, step into the open, a 30-pack of Budweiser in his hand.  “Everybody gone?”  he called.

    When we told him we were the only ones left, he came over to the site and placed the case of beer on the ground.  “Well, here you are.”

    Sensing we had no clue what he was talking about it, he said, “When Ray knew he was going to die, he told me to get a case of beer and go to his gravesite and hide.  Then,” he went on, “when the old people leave, he told me to come on out and let you have a beer on him.”

NOTE:  We are now the old people

    Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and the grave.   

    Nobody said a word for a few minutes.  Then-I don’t remember who-one of us grabbed a can.  The rest immediately followed.

    Popping our tops, we raised our cans to Poppy.

    Before we drank, my brother said, “Wait!”  Opening a can, he set it on top of the casket and said, “Well, here you go, cheaper than you can get at Yankee Stadium.”

    With that, we all had a beer to the memory of our father.

    Needless to say, we finished that case and, despite the “These people are nuts” looks from the cemetery workers, stayed until the casket was finally lowered into the ground.

    It may have been a strange way to act at a funeral, but we knew that was the way Poppy would have preferred it.  Why else would he have had the presence of mind to contract the services of “Funerals By George”?

    At the post-service "Deviled Eggs and Macaroni Salad Fest", we were discussing how we’d like to be remembered when it was our turn to check out.  We all agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have fun with it” sounds morbid, it pretty much sums up our philosophies.

    Then, we “handicapped” who'd go next.  After focusing on who had the most hazardous profession, discussions finally centered on our most serious health problems.  While none of us have any medical issues to speak of, my brother and I DO have high blood pressure.  

    NOTE: I have since suffered from a blood clot.  Don't cry for me, though.

Especially Argentina

    Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely to die next, we flipped a coin.

    I lost. 

    Wonder if George is in the phone book?   

 Epilogue:  That was almost thirty years ago.  I probably should think about getting my affairs in order.