My father's eventful burial (or maybe not...)
My father lived a long life and I hope it was happy. He died when he was 84 years old; since he smoked 3 packs a day of unfiltered Pall Mall cigarettes from the age of 15, I think he had a good run. At his viewing, my mother, sister, and I enjoyed sharing stories about him with all the people who showed up to honor him. Two of my good friends, Alan and Ken, came in their best suits, looking like real gentlemen! It made me happy. One of our neighbors, who had always been just a bit "off", asked them who they were and what they were doing there. God bless them, they told her that they were professional mourners. How lucky am I?!
After the viewing we went back to our family home and invited everyone to join us. I don't remember who showed up, but I know we drank more gin martinis than we should have. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The next day we got in the big black car that would accompany the hearse to Mount Erin Cemetery in Havre de Grace, Maryland. It was a 74 mile journey. The weather could not have been worse: snow, sleet, hail, ice. I'm getting woozy just thinking about it. When we arrived in Havre de Grace, it became clear that the adorable and tiny mortician man had no clue where Mount Erin Cemetery was located. We just assumed that he would know; we didn't know, either. So began countless twists and turns on the icy roads, in and out of 7-Eleven parking lots, grocery stores, even residential driveways. With every zig and zag, our hungover bodies threatened to spew disgusting contents from various orifices. I said to my mother and sister, "My, that little mortician man is certainly meeting a lot of people today."
Finally, we found the cemetery. It was deserted. My sister was in dire need of a bathroom, and the ice and snow just kept falling. Finally, she threw her scarf over shoulder and went in search of a tree upon which to...relieve herself. The tiny mortician walked to a house nearby; he obviously hadn't met enough people yet. From there, he contacted the missing priest. He also had to find someone to dig out my father's grave. The storm had been so fearsome that the newly dug grave had collapsed upon itself.
When the priest arrived, it was decided that since the weather was still horrible we would say our prayers and anything else we wanted to say at the back of the hearse. We pulled the casket out a bit, and, just as the priest began to pray, the grave digging backhoe started up. It was too much, really. My mother, sister and I burst into inappropriate fits of laughter. I think Papa would have been proud.
Due to the circumstances, the little mortician offered to stay behind until Papa was actually in the ground. My mother, sister, and I agreed that would be the best option. I can't prove that my father is in that cemetery plot because I never saw his casket leave the hearse. I take the mortician's word for it.
My mother decided to be cremated.
After the viewing we went back to our family home and invited everyone to join us. I don't remember who showed up, but I know we drank more gin martinis than we should have. It seemed like a good idea at the time.
The next day we got in the big black car that would accompany the hearse to Mount Erin Cemetery in Havre de Grace, Maryland. It was a 74 mile journey. The weather could not have been worse: snow, sleet, hail, ice. I'm getting woozy just thinking about it. When we arrived in Havre de Grace, it became clear that the adorable and tiny mortician man had no clue where Mount Erin Cemetery was located. We just assumed that he would know; we didn't know, either. So began countless twists and turns on the icy roads, in and out of 7-Eleven parking lots, grocery stores, even residential driveways. With every zig and zag, our hungover bodies threatened to spew disgusting contents from various orifices. I said to my mother and sister, "My, that little mortician man is certainly meeting a lot of people today."
Finally, we found the cemetery. It was deserted. My sister was in dire need of a bathroom, and the ice and snow just kept falling. Finally, she threw her scarf over shoulder and went in search of a tree upon which to...relieve herself. The tiny mortician walked to a house nearby; he obviously hadn't met enough people yet. From there, he contacted the missing priest. He also had to find someone to dig out my father's grave. The storm had been so fearsome that the newly dug grave had collapsed upon itself.
When the priest arrived, it was decided that since the weather was still horrible we would say our prayers and anything else we wanted to say at the back of the hearse. We pulled the casket out a bit, and, just as the priest began to pray, the grave digging backhoe started up. It was too much, really. My mother, sister and I burst into inappropriate fits of laughter. I think Papa would have been proud.
Due to the circumstances, the little mortician offered to stay behind until Papa was actually in the ground. My mother, sister, and I agreed that would be the best option. I can't prove that my father is in that cemetery plot because I never saw his casket leave the hearse. I take the mortician's word for it.
My mother decided to be cremated.
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