Prologue: My stepfather would have been 84 today. However, like my mother, we were denied the privilege of growing old with him. That said, I've reposted this many times since then. For the two of you who are regular readers, you've seen this before. But, I've updated it a little just to keep your interest. For those of you for whom this is new, welcome. I hope you can get a sense of how much this man meant to my family.
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| Good times |
I’d spent a considerable amount of time deciding
whether to write this when I first decided to...uh...write this back in 1997.
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This originally came out that year.
We may see the sequel in 2026. |
At first blush,
it seemed disrespectful. I mean, how
could telling a funny story about my stepfather’s funeral be anything BUT in
poor taste?
The more I thought about it, though, the
more I realized that our final respects to “Poppy” weren’t contrived or
phony. Rather, they were a sincere goodbye
to one of the family and the way I’d wanna go when I...uh...gotta go.
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| Which, frankly, is a lot closer now than when I first wrote this 28 years ago. |
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. She 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.
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. He may have thought
onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater,
but he was our model for manhood.
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| His feet also smelled like death when he took his sneakers off. |
When he succumbed to cancer in 1996, 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.
NOTE: Many more children have been born since then.
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 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,” (one of the stupidest sayings known to man), 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, 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 smirks from me and my other siblings. Nor disapproving looks and hushed “tsk tsks”
from some of the other, more distant, relatives.
Through it all, though, we maintained our
composure.
Until my other brother's old girlfriend showed up. More smirks.
Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived (with a nose ring that
looked downright painful), smirks became giggles.
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Picture of Madonna submitted for entertainment use only.
Because she's someone's old girlfriend. |
Giggles became whispered jokes. And whispered jokes became throwing our
voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.
NOTE: We are now the elderly relatives. As for the former elderly relatives? Put it this way...when we speak of them, we use past tense.
As bad as our performances at the “home”
were, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.
Starting off with a service at the
Episcopalian Church (aka “Catholic Light”) we ended up at the
biggest cemetery in town.
NOTE: Its parking lot was so big, it was divided into "Dead Disney Characters" sections. We parked in "Bambi's Mom."
Yes, I realize that sounds dirty.
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, doughnut, and coffee fest at the Elks Lodge.
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Something about funerals makes me crave boiled ham and cheese on little rolls.
Good thing he wasn't Jewish.
My first wife was, though.
I ate hers. |
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| We were told there'd also be beer. |
Me, my siblings and our spouses remined behind. We stared quietly at the casket, 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.
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| Since it was 1996, we didn't think it was Joe Biden |
But, who...? Suddenly, George, one of our classmates from high school, stepped from behind the tree, a 30-pack of Budweiser in
his hand. “Everybody gone?” he called.
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Back in the quaint old days of the 20th century,
no one thought women had dicks. |
When we told him we were the only ones
left, he came over to the site and placed the case 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 everybody but the kids left, he told me to come
on out and let you have a beer on him.”
Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and
the grave.
Nobody said a word for a few minutes. Then, one of us-I don’t remember who-grabbed
a can. The rest of us immediately
followed.
Popping our tops, we raised our cans to
Poppy in toast.
Before we drank, though, my brother said,
“Wait!” Opening a Bud, he set it on top
of the casket, “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 shuffle off this mortal coil. We agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have
fun with it” sounded morbid, it pretty much summed up our philosophies.
Then, we “handicapped” who would go
next. After focusing on who had the most
hazardous profession, we finally centered
on health problems. While none of us had any medical issues to speak of (that has long since changed), one of my brothers and I did have high blood pressure. Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely
to die next, we flipped a coin.
I lost.
Ray died when he was 55.
I am now 67.
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| Wonder if George has a website? |
