So, I've been sick for a couple of weeks now. Like, really craptastically sick. However, I have children, so I can't really be sick-sick because I have to take care of them. So, I'm doing minimal things like one load of laundry per day, two sinks of dishes and giving them instant this or that for breakfast and lunch so I only really have to cook dinner. Here's the thing - That does not stop them from playing in the fridge and breaking eggs all over, pouring the whole box of cereal or bag of chex mix in the floor, knocking over the garbage can, or managing to soil two loads of laundry in a day. To put it mildly, I'm a little behind.
This morning I was dreaming that I'd woken up, made my husband his lunch and sent him off to work while the alarm clock was blaring in my head. I even dreamed that the alarm clock was wrong because it said 6.45 when it was actually 9 something and I apologised to my husband for making him late even though it wasn't my fault and I went back to bed. Then I woke up for real and saw that it was almost 7:30 which is bad because my husband has to leave by 7:40 to get to work on time. Fuck me sideways. He did get out of here on time and should be merrily typing away at his desk now, though.
After he left, I tried very hard to get back to sleep, but I have the plague, so I kept coughing and my nose was running all over the pillow and being gross and the Stooges marathon was on - don't be daft, can't miss the Stooges. Of course, without fail, I have to go pee and my legs get all crampy and I just HAVE to get up. Now, some alka seltzer cold medicine, one prayer to the porcelain god, some dry bread and a cup of coffee later; Here I sit thinking about my dad. Again. Like I always do in the early morning. (Just an aside to explain: I used to wake up an hour before my dad and plan out his day, draw his injections, cook his breakfast, brew his coffee and let it cool, lay out his clothing and bandage changes, etc etc. For years and years, I did this. So its really an engrained habit to think of Daddy first thing in the morning). But, not just my dad this time 'cause my uncle Carlos is on my mind too.
The Stooges remind me of my uncle a lot because he was always one to make you laugh. Now, remember, I feel like hand carved death right now. As such, I am imagining my funeral. Because that's what people really do when they have a cold is they imagine how horrible and dramatic it will be when they die of this temporary and really not so painful ailment they're currently battling, right? You'll say no, but I know you really do so it's okay. So, I'm imagining my funeral and I remember what my uncle's funeral was like. Now my uncle liked his beer and nobody in my house ever dared tell him he couldn't have it (even though we never had alcohol in mom's house) because, by hell, he never hurt anybody in all his life. Not one living soul. And his children loved him very well and they decided that they should play this party song
during the service. And I swear to God, people layed over in the pews wailing and blubbering. I don't know how much you know about country music but crying at this song is sort of like crying at Nate Dogg's Regulate. But it was so very, poignantly, Uncle Carlos and even I sat in my little pew, stiff necked, with tears streaming down my face as this song rolled on. Just determined that I wasn't going to fall over. After all, if anyone had a right to fall over wailing, it is the people who were doing it; his children and grandchildren who had already buried his dear wife of 40+ years not six months prior to this. It was dignified and it was right but it felt so terribly wrong to me on some level that I can't really articulate.
So, then I'm remembering my father's funeral. Anyone who knows me very well already knows this story but I'll tell it to you because you love me and you'll excuse me if I'm a little morose.
Now, my father was a good man and he recognised how very ill he really was. So, bearing that in mind, he made me drive him to his hometown one day not long after his own mother had passed on into the next world. Back to the very place where we'd laid her out, as a matter of fact. Because, apparently, these people are some sort of family of ours and because grandma and grandpa's family own their own cemeteries where he (we) can be buried without paying for a plot. He had me to sit down with him and a funeral director to plan out his final arrangements and one of those arrangements was who would speak at his funeral. Cove Perkus, he said. No one else. But, sadly, Cove (pronounced Co-Vee) passed on before my father's body and after his mind had gone. Meaning that I had to ring up the funeral director and decide who should replace Cove. They highly recommended a gentleman who was close with Cove and I said I would be okay with that and made notations in Daddy's funeral folder. (Did you know the feminine of executor is executrix? Well, it is).
Several months later, of course, my father passed on and had to be taken away by the mortician and made ready to be laid to final rest. My father delayed everything in life as long as he could and usually out of necessity but I realized sometime after they told me he was gone and before they let me see him that by choosing to have his funeral and burial in his hometown, he'd managed to get one last 5 hour drive. Good for him.
Everything was ready. The obituary was taken care of for me, there was food and drink aplenty, the funeral directors even had cigarettes in case I ran out. They were wonderful, caring, professional and well prepared for any eventuality. Except the headstone. That, I had to do myself. So, I pulled on my big girl bloomers and hitched up my boobs, squared my shoulders and walked right over to the "monument company" in the middle of the visitation. Friends and neighbors, I want you all to know that I haven't the foggiest of ideas how I came to choose the stone I chose. But, I chose one and I took a photo of it with my phone - because they have them on display, which is a little bit creepy - and I took this photo to my mother for approval. She very swiftly turned up her nose and said it was fine. So, I went back and ordered this stone. Then this lady is asking me what she's supposed to write on it and I looked at this poor woman like she had three heads. What do I want written on it? What the hell do you write on a headstone? Whut? Anyway, I figured it out and toddled myself back to the funeral home again.
So, the service is waiting for me at this point because I'm taking my sweetass time. I am not in any hurry to plant my daddy in a hole. I went into the lounge and had a meltdown - the highlights of which include slobbering and snotting all over my poor husband's nice clean shirt. Very dignified, I assure you. So, when I finished that, I suddenly realized I hadn't asked the funeral director this hugely important question. I mean, we couldn't bury my father until I asked this question and got an acceptable answer. So I flagged him down and asked very seriously, straight faced and all "Did you put both shoes in the casket?" Because, Daddy only had the one leg, you know? But I knew he needed both of those shoes, so of course they put them in and his favorite blanket, also. ( Side observation: You ever notice how often sad people touch everyone and everything around them? Its true. Look around at a funeral and everyone there will be touching another person or making coffee for themself and someone else who is currently TOUCHING SOMEONE).
Now, mind you my father's death came at a terrible time. It was the beginning of the big recession when companies were shutting down and layoffs were happening and even the miners were feeling the crunch. I say this because the gentleman who was meant to speak at my father's service was only a part time eulogy giver. He was actually a full time coal miner. Which meant that he could not possibly take time away from his job to speak for us. Which meant the funeral directors were scrambling to find someone else somewhere in Appalachia to do it because, while they were well experienced at their trade, it is still considered customary for an actual preacher or member of clergy to preside over a funeral.
Well, of course, they found someone to do the service for us and we all filed into the chapel very reverently and sat down to listen to the usual "He was a fine upstanding Christian and so and so forth". But LET ME TELL YOU, friends and neighbors. There is/was/never will be ANYTHING on this Earth that could have possibly prepared me for what was about to happen. My father - who was a righteous Southern Baptist - lay there in his most favorite apparel, with his lower half covered in his very favorite blanket, with his one leg and two shoes and the flowers my niece wanted him to have and the necklace my oldest daughter wanted him to have and all the love an only daughter could ever have for a father inside his casket. And in from the side door, there walked not a single preacher, not a preacher and his wife, not even a preacher and his wife and children. No, no! In walked a TROUPE of bible toting Pentacostal tent revivalists. And I felt all the blood drain from my face.
I don't know if you've ever been to a Pentacostal tent revival, but folks, it is VERY spirited. Now these good people had come to do me a favor, presumably out of the goodness of their Christian hearts - or possibly because they were being paid - and speak for my father. So, there I sat, with my jaw clamped shut, watching in growing horror as each of these people stood up and sang. Long, slow, meandering, senseless songs that you will never ever find in your hymnal, they sang. Half an hour into the singing, there was a break and the preacher stepped up to the pulpet. Now, I want you to know that this is not the sort of thing any of my family has ever had or requested at their funeral. Nor is it what my father would have wanted. But I decided to endure it because it was either them or me and I was simply exhausted from travel (fifteen hours driving and only 8 hours sleeping in two days) and grief, so if I tried I knew my knees were going to buckle.
When the preacher stepped up and the music died down, a hush was over the room. Nobody knew what was about to be said and most of us were a little bit afraid. Then he spoke. Loudly. At length. I have no idea what the hell he said. He could have been casting a demonic spell on us all and I would be none the wiser. So many words came out of that man's mouth and after four or five words, without fail, he would repeat "IN JESUS NAME LORD AND" four or five more words; repeat ad nauseum. My husband sat through about ten minutes of this and became so incensed that he pinched our six month old baby so he'd have an excuse to flee the room with her in tow.
I don't mind telling you that I was incredibly offended with the way this man carried on and I could see shame on the faces of the men who'd called him there as they looked at the floor, and after a time, they slowly backed their way out of the room altogether. The longer he spoke, the angrier I got. Just around the time my husband pinched the baby, I began to hear someone singing one of the tunes Little Black Sambo used to sing way back in the early days of television and movies. "Nya nya nya na nya nya, na nana na nya nya na nya" It was quiet at first and I thought I was imagining it. Then it got louder. Then I heard feet tapping in the room. Nowhere near as loud as the din of the preacher's voice, but sort of outside it. On another wavelength. So I start scanning the room to see where its coming from and I notice, no one else seems intrigued.
Without warning, I hear a burst of curse words coming from next to the podium. The voice is clear, angry, loud and unmistakable. It was my father's voice. So, I knew then that I was just out of my mind. I turned my wide eyed gaze slowly toward the raised voices of the preacher and of my father. And there stood my father scarce inches from the preacher's ear, screaming "Well, GODDAMN! HELLLOO!" A string of expletives and threats of bodily harm that was very colorful and not at all befitting of a chapel ensued, but the preacher kept going. Then someone else came up to sing and Daddy went back to his Little Black Sambo routine. By now I'd clamped my hand over my mouth in shock and awe and disbelief. Then the preacher started back up "IN JESUS NAME LORD" and Daddy started cursing again. At this point, I could not contain myself any longer. Tears of sorrow now mixed with tears of laughter and I was howling behind the hand clamped over my mouth. So I stood up and walked out on my own father's funeral. Half of me demanded I go back and slap that preacher's face for Daddy, but I ignored it and kept walking.
Don't let anyone like that preach at my funeral. Don't do it. I will do more than curse behind the podium. I will knock some shit over and haunt the fuck out of whoever thought it was a good idea to have someone like that speak. I will fuck you up from beyond the grave. If you have a choice between that guy and no one, that guy is still the wrong choice. Just have like, the drunkest person I know go up to the podium and be like "Well, the bitch is gone. She was a fat woman and she was a loudmouth, but she was half Irish so everybody raise a glass and let's get her in the oven".
Seriously.
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