I have a habit that is taken too literal by others. I seem to be habitually late for appointments of any kind, personal or business. It’s just the way I am. However, it has often led to remarks like, “You’ll be late for your own funeral.” I take it in jest, but I wonder if it might be possible.
I believe it is important to attend funerals or viewings of friends, loved ones, community members and workmates. It is a last chance to show respect before they are gone time immemorial.
The very first body I ever saw lying in rest was a 12-year-old friend who had drowned. The viewing was in Beachburg. I was rather nervous and finally getting the courage to look into the coffin, I almost freaked out. I swear that one of his folded hands twitched. I mentioned it to someone that he was maybe only unconscious. The man just laughed.
Despite saying a goodbye to someone, it usually has the benefit of meeting old friends and renewing friendships. I had a chance to talk with Sheila at my mother’s funeral – the first time in years. She was living in Ottawa and I in Toronto
A 5.0-magnitude earthquake, its epicentre about 60 km north of Ottawa, shook the city including the funeral home where Sheila’s long-term partner was about to have his viewing. Just as her son and cousin took a couple of steps into the funeral home, they heard Sheila shouting, “Get out.” But not before they helped her out to the parking lot. After the quake subsided, her cousin Sheldon dryly remarked, “After waiting two hours for the doors to open, I just got in and was ordered to leave.”
An acquaintance from Kingston told me once of a graveside service for a departed veterinarian that took a twist. Over a hundred people were on hand for the ritual when a grey cat scampered across the lawn and settled right on the coffin. There was a silence like a muted microphone from the onlookers then relief as they sensed that cat’s appearance was a good omen – after all this coffin had an animal doctor inside.
There is one funeral story I can’t forget but wish I could. I was driving my Ex and her sister to another sister’s husband’s funeral in Brampton, leaving from Wasaga Beach. Not far from Brampton I ran out of gas. Of course, both doubled down on my carelessness for not checking the gauge. A van pulled up with a Newfoundlander – new to Ontario – who offered help. He had just enough gas in a container to allow me to reach a service station. He was great, wouldn’t dream of taking money. He just wanted to give us a chance to make the funeral on time. We finally arrived, but the funeral was underway and filled to capacity, even people standing outside the door. The hell I got earlier was mild compared to now; hell hath no fury by two women scorned.
When I got my bearings back the next day I realized, “It was my Ex’s car I had driven to the funeral so she should rightfully have been responsible for the low gas level.” It would be purposeless to bring it up now, so I didn’t.
One of the saddest funerals was for my favourite aunt, sister of my Mom. She was a widower and lived alone in the family home in Prescott. During the Great Ice Storm of 1998, she coped in isolation for about 10 days, then decided she had to drive somewhere. She was found dead, straddled behind the steering wheel, the door open, and missing one shoe. Looking suspicious, an autopsy was carried out. She had died of a heart attack.
I know people who are genuinely concerned of how they will look when their time comes for the visitation. Women in particular often have a complete set of clothes waiting for the funeral director’s attention, probably along with a list of a preferred hair style, favourite blush and whether or not she wishes to smile.
As for myself, I’m not particular about how I’m dressed. I only wonder how many might come to pay their respects – I hope at least a few!
