Prelude to Grandma's Funeral, part 3

I really must apologize for the length of today's post. Hopefully, you will find at least a bit amusing, and it will explain the events in tomorrow's post, which--I promise!--will be about Grandma's funeral.

I don't like funerals and I don't know anyone who does. (The Irish had the right idea: Party first, then lament. I hope that when I shuffle off this mortal coil, my family and friends rent out the new Intrust Stadium we've just built here in Wichita to throw the biggest party this town has ever seen (Why not? We don't have any sort of team to stuff in it!). I mean it! I want everyone to tell stories about me, drink to my memory, laugh a lot, cry only from said laughing, and just generally have a good time. No lamenting, please.) Now, since I don't like funerals, I have a hard time with them. If the person who's parting we're lamenting passed away under the age of umm, let's say 80, I have a tendency to cry my eyes out. To me, dying before 80 means that a person didn't get their fair share of Life--which is truly tragic, and I can't help but react emotionally to it. Combine said passing away with a tragic accident or mishap, and I'm doubly emotional. I don't know why I bother to put on makeup to go to such an event, 'cause it ain't staying on my face, it ends up all over the tissue I'm gripping in my grubby fist.

But then again, I come from a family that can really work itself up for a funeral. Doesn't matter how old the decedent is, someone in my family is going to wail loudly; someone is going to faint; someone may take it into their head to jump into the hole to join the dearly departed. One of the few joys about attending one of my family's funerals is that you get quite a show. Seriously, the funeral parlor could make quite a few more bucks if they sold popcorn. What can I say? It's a Southern family. Plus, since it's a Southern family, you get the double pleasure of hearing the snarky remarks the women of the family make about each other.

Case in point: My grandfather's funeral. My Aunt L was my father's half sister, a product of my grandfather's first marriage. She was not fond of my grandfather. Yet, at the graveside service, Aunt L proceeded to succumb to such grief that--you guessed it--she fainted away into her husband's arms. He swooped her up in the very best "Gone With the Wind" fashion and hurried away with her. My cousin, Gertie, observed all this, and muttered "That was a good one! But then, she's had all week to practice...." and I had to hide my face in my hands.

Which was the second time that funeral that I'd had to hide my face and try to smother laughter. See, the second thing about me and funerals is that, if the decedent is past the age of 80 and/or their passing isn't unexpected, I can't get too worked up about it. I may get a little sad, but usually I'm happy that they had their shot at Life and got to leave after much hard work. I will attend the funeral, I will strive to attain the proper state of sobriety, but don't expect me to faint or provide much of a sideshow......

EXCEPT: I have another, far more sinister trait that manifests during funerals in this category: At some point, no matter how somber the service, I will get the giggles. It's inevitable. Sure as the Creator made little green apples, I will lose it. I can no more stop this than I can break the breathing habit. I've tried. The best I can do is camouflage my perversity with the aforementioned tissue. (Oh, and just so you know, if you're ever in a situation where you have to stuff tissue in your mouth to choke back laughter, it takes about three to get the job done. Just a word of advice from your Auntie Wela!)

So, back to my grandfather's funeral: The memorial service itself was held in a little church in Hamilton, Kansas, which is where my grandparents spent a lot of their lives, particularly the last 20 years or so. I was sitting in the pew next to my cousin Larry, which is a dangerous thing to do these days, and which could have been lethal back then, because Larry is one funny human being and back then, he had zero restraint. The guy gets up to deliver the requiem (my mom says it was the funeral director; I swear he introduced himself as "Reverend Whatever" but that's not really important). He starts out by thanking us all for attending (this was back in 1982, and I bet there was a hundred people there--all but about three, family), then he says that while he didn't know my grandfather personally, he was happy to have an opportunity to speak about him.

Huh-oh, said a little voice in my head. My ears cranked up a notch. My grandfather was not an easy person to know. He was a walking contradiction--the epitome of an Irishman. He was funny and jovial, yet a surly drunk. He was great to grandchildren, if a little abusive (ever had a "dutch rub"?), yet beat his wife and children. He'd give you the shirt off his back, yet he'd drink and gamble away a paycheck, rather than feed his family. He would cry out in pain in his sleep (his back had been broken), but never make a peep about it when he was awake. The older he got, the meaner he got. He loved animals, but he shot a neighbor's dog when it wouldn't stay out of Grandma's veggie garden. (He was also about 100 lbs. soaking wet and bent over; when the big, beefy neighbor came over to threaten his life about the loss of the dog, my grandfather cocked his head to one side so he could look up and up at him, and said calmly "That's alright. I've got more shells for my shotgun.") He was in many ways a very tough, very mean man.

So when Reverend Whosit starts talking about this saintly, elderly gentleman who was the epitome of kindness and neighborliness, my cousin leaned over to me and whispered, "Oh my God, we're at the wrong funeral."

I lost it. So did he.

The harder we tried to stop giggling, the harder the giggling got. Have you ever had silent hysterics? That was what was going on with us. We didn't dare look at each other. We shook with laughter--but quietly! We silently convulsed and our shoulders were shaking, we were laughing so hard. And you know the harder you try to behave, the worse it gets, right? Finally, in desperation, we both leaned our heads over into our laps and covered our faces with our hands, helpless with whispered giggles. This, while everyone watching us is saying, "Oh, isn't that sweet? The grandchildren are overcome with grief." It was awful. It was hilarious.

That's me in all my glory. *sigh*

Oh, the third funny thing at the funeral: It was a gloomy day, it had been a very wet spring that year, and the Janesville cemetery out there by Hamilton was pretty muddy. My father was escorting my little Great-Aunt Neva, who was all of about 4'6", back to the car, and referencing my Aunt L's grand exit from the service, he said to her "Aunt Neva, I could carry you back to the car." And she looked up sharply at him and said "And I can break your goddamn arm, too!"

Southern ladies. Gotta love 'em.

This entry is getting way too long, so I will finish it tomorrow--promise!

Consider yourself warned.