The "Funerals Suck" Post
Well, duh. Who doesn't think funerals suck?
Although I'd venture to guess that for the overly introspective, atheist, slightly neurotic of us, they suck just a little bit more.
Sure, we're sad that the guest of honor is gone. Sure, we miss that person. But at the same time, that person's passing reminds us that our own time is coming.
When you're a kid, you might worry about a parent or grandparent dying, but deep down, you don't believe it will ever really happen. You're Peter Pan, and you'll never grow up, and your entire family will always be just as it is right this minute.
And then, before you even realize what's happening, your grandparents are gone. Your parents are now grandparents. To your children. Making YOU the adults. Pushing middle age. Worrying about your kids doing the stupid shit it seems like you were just doing a year or so ago (in reality, it was more like 20) and realizing with horror that you're now also worrying about your parents.
I will say Grandpa's funeral was probably the best funeral I've ever been to. He wasn't sick, he wasn't taken too soon, and it wasn't a tragedy. He was 94 fucking years old and just plain done. He died in peace, surrounded by family, not hooked up to any machines or IVs or anything else. So the funeral home had a good canvas to work with, but kudos to them for making Grandpa look none too different than he did when I saw him a week ago.
The service opened with "Amazing Grace." It took me a minute to recognize my mother as the vocalist, and my dad accompanying her on guitar. (Yes, we're the freakin' VonTrapps.) They recorded it the night Grandpa died. Kudos to Mom, because no way could I have done that.
Next, the pastor read a eulogy written by one of my cousins, then one written by my sister. They were both very well-said. The pastor then asked people to share their own memories of Grandpa.
His laugh.
His greeting every female (relative or not) with "Hello, pretty girl!" and sending her off with "oh, you sweet thing."
His trying to order a Dairy Queen treat for my then-3-year-old cousin and confusing the clerk by asking for a "Mitty Mitty." (Mr. Misty)
His decision to play home dermatologist and applying an industrial-grade solvent to a suspicious mole on his nose. (Hey, we never said he was the brightest bulb in the chandelier.)
His love of hunting and fishing. (He gave up hunting after a not-dead squirrel turned to face him as he was skinning it. Yes, that's right--squirrel. We never said he was a big game hunter, either.)
His absurd physical stamina, even as he grew older. If you needed someone to do something, you didn't even have to ask.
The way he treated his ever-worsening dementia with his usual good humor--responding to the how-are-you question with "I can't remember. Berniece, how am I?" and spending evenings reciting the names of all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And how when Grandma admonished him that he'd told someone that story a hundred times before, he responded "well, I haven't told him today, have I?"
The pastor then read the garden poem. After that, they showed a video of Grandpa playing "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder" on his harmonica, followed by a live barbershop quartet singing the same song.
Of course, this is where I thought the service should end, but it was followed by the usual Repent and Accept Christ as Your Lord & Savior sermon. Which was, I suppose, fitting--my grandparents (and much of the rest of my family) were good southern Baptists and that's what they believe.
And then it was time to say good-bye.
And now I'm tearing up again as I type this. All in all, it's been a sad, surreal, exhausting day.
Although I'd venture to guess that for the overly introspective, atheist, slightly neurotic of us, they suck just a little bit more.
Sure, we're sad that the guest of honor is gone. Sure, we miss that person. But at the same time, that person's passing reminds us that our own time is coming.
When you're a kid, you might worry about a parent or grandparent dying, but deep down, you don't believe it will ever really happen. You're Peter Pan, and you'll never grow up, and your entire family will always be just as it is right this minute.
And then, before you even realize what's happening, your grandparents are gone. Your parents are now grandparents. To your children. Making YOU the adults. Pushing middle age. Worrying about your kids doing the stupid shit it seems like you were just doing a year or so ago (in reality, it was more like 20) and realizing with horror that you're now also worrying about your parents.
I will say Grandpa's funeral was probably the best funeral I've ever been to. He wasn't sick, he wasn't taken too soon, and it wasn't a tragedy. He was 94 fucking years old and just plain done. He died in peace, surrounded by family, not hooked up to any machines or IVs or anything else. So the funeral home had a good canvas to work with, but kudos to them for making Grandpa look none too different than he did when I saw him a week ago.
The service opened with "Amazing Grace." It took me a minute to recognize my mother as the vocalist, and my dad accompanying her on guitar. (Yes, we're the freakin' VonTrapps.) They recorded it the night Grandpa died. Kudos to Mom, because no way could I have done that.
Next, the pastor read a eulogy written by one of my cousins, then one written by my sister. They were both very well-said. The pastor then asked people to share their own memories of Grandpa.
His laugh.
His greeting every female (relative or not) with "Hello, pretty girl!" and sending her off with "oh, you sweet thing."
His trying to order a Dairy Queen treat for my then-3-year-old cousin and confusing the clerk by asking for a "Mitty Mitty." (Mr. Misty)
His decision to play home dermatologist and applying an industrial-grade solvent to a suspicious mole on his nose. (Hey, we never said he was the brightest bulb in the chandelier.)
His love of hunting and fishing. (He gave up hunting after a not-dead squirrel turned to face him as he was skinning it. Yes, that's right--squirrel. We never said he was a big game hunter, either.)
His absurd physical stamina, even as he grew older. If you needed someone to do something, you didn't even have to ask.
The way he treated his ever-worsening dementia with his usual good humor--responding to the how-are-you question with "I can't remember. Berniece, how am I?" and spending evenings reciting the names of all his children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And how when Grandma admonished him that he'd told someone that story a hundred times before, he responded "well, I haven't told him today, have I?"
The pastor then read the garden poem. After that, they showed a video of Grandpa playing "When the Roll is Called Up Yonder" on his harmonica, followed by a live barbershop quartet singing the same song.
Of course, this is where I thought the service should end, but it was followed by the usual Repent and Accept Christ as Your Lord & Savior sermon. Which was, I suppose, fitting--my grandparents (and much of the rest of my family) were good southern Baptists and that's what they believe.
And then it was time to say good-bye.
And now I'm tearing up again as I type this. All in all, it's been a sad, surreal, exhausting day.
posted by Mitzi Green at 7:00 PM
2 Comments:
It sounds a beautiful funeral. So much thought went into it and to remembering who and what he was. I love the greetings for young ladies he used to use - what a gent!
hugs. i hope the garden poem was enjoyed by everyone, it was so beautifully written.
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