bum leg at her studio. I laughed along with her, all the while performing my job of taking notes and gathering information for the funeral service.
Mrs. Smith seemed to delight in throwing out cheesy one-liners about the death profession. such as “You’re the last person to let someone down!” and “I bet people are just dying to get in here!” Then she would give her sharp, biting laugh that ended in a coughing fit from a lifetime of chain smoking, a habit she continued while in my office. My ashtray overflowed with lipstick-printed slim cigarettes.
While we were making arrangements, she kept saying “There’s something I want to tell you that I can’t remember.” Then she would get sidetracked on her life’s story. By the end of all her stories I had managed to get all the funeral details hammered out.
Once again she said to me, “There’s something I want to tell you that I can’t remember.”
“That’s all right,” I told her. “I’ll go over the price agreement with you and if you remember later, you can call me.”
I discussed all the itemized charges on the price agreement and had gotten to the total when she burst out, “I know what I wanted to tell you!”
I raised my eyebrows.
She leaned over the desk and whispered clandestinely to me as if there were other people who might overhear, “She doesn’t have any legs.”
Without missing a beat I stared back at her and whispered, “Same price.”
She sat back and laughed so hard tears came to her eyes. She started coughing and slapping her leg and I couldn’t tell where the coughing began and the laughter ended. I waited patiently with a big stupid grin on my face.
After Mrs. Smith composed herself and I was walking her out of the funeral home, she shook my hand and said soberly, “Thank you, Mr. Joke. You have made this so easy. I was really dreading coming in and doing this even though my daughter—” her voice cracked, “is in a much better place. I haven’t laughed this hard in ages. I really needed it. To be frank with you, I’m dreading moving to Florida. My cousins are all a bunch of stuffed shirts.”
“Mrs. Smith, if you ever want to laugh just call me and it would be my pleasure.” And I meant it. “As for your family in Florida, maybe they need a little humor in their lives. Something you can certainly offer them.”
CHAPTER 26
Hearse of a Different Make
Transporting the dead is a big part of my job. In our fragmented society, it’s not at all uncommon for someone to die hundreds of miles from the family plot. How do we get them to where they need to go? In the old days, the railroads were used. But today, if human remains need to be transported, it’s done via hearse if the distance isn’t too great, or more frequently, via airliner. Believe it or not, the last time you boarded a flight to Las Vegas to do some gambling, or California for a romantic weekend in Napa, or Florida to soak up the sunshine, you were more than likely traveling with a dead passenger in the cargo hold. It’s standard fare, although there are less conventional methods.
I once served a family who wanted to take “Dad” back to his final resting place themselves. And by that I mean in the back of a battered Dodge pickup truck. I really don’t think it was a matter of money, but rather a promise made. What could I do? I honored their request. These folks backed their pickup into the garage. We hefted the twenty-gauge steel casket into the bed, covered it with a quilt, and strapped it into place. I gave them the burial/transport permit and stood in the parking lot waving good-bye as they headed for a family plot in the Black Hills of North Dakota.
It’s not illegal to do something like that, though most people are uncomfortable transporting a dead loved one propped in the back seat or lying in the bed of a truck. It conjures up images of
Several years later a family walked through my front door and told me their mother was dead. I offered them my sincerest condolences and ushered the two sons and daughter of the dead woman into my office. I served them coffee and fresh muffins and we sat and talked about the funeral service. I collected as much biographical information about the dead woman as they could remember—information I needed to complete the death certificate and file it with the state. Then I got around to the biggie: where is “Mom”?
The son offhandedly told me, “Around back.”
I was caught off guard and replied, “Huh?” With a dim-witted look.
The son took the last bite of his third muffin and reiterated, “Around back.” Then he added, “In the pickup.”
I guess I gave them a horrified look because the daughter quickly chimed in, “We brought her here in the truck. Thought we’d save you a trip.”
“Save me a trip?” I know I was repeating her, but it was all I could think of to say.
“Well, sure,” the son said, grabbing a fourth muffin. “She died. I picked her up an’ laid her in the back of my pickup an’ came on over here.”
I hopped up and practically ran outside, the three clients tailing behind me. The pickup was in one of our many parking spaces just like any other car visiting the establishment. I peered inside the truck bed and sure enough, a figure lay there swaddled in white sheets.
Hello, Mom.
CHAPTER 27
Shot-Putted Urn
My merchandise display room was a very staid and elegant chamber until one woman decided to perform an Olympic event there.
I’ve worked very hard changing and tweaking things over the years to ensure that the display room isn’t too intimidating to my customers, yet conveys the message that their loved ones are going to get the finest products. I’ve found there’s no good way to display visual reminders of their loved ones’ deaths, but the impact of coming face to face with caskets, urns, and burial vaults can be minimized, and I’ve tried to present my merchandise in the least threatening way possible.
My display room is an L-shaped area with the urns, models of the burial vaults, and memorial jewelry visible as you first enter, and the casket display once you turn the corner. A bubbling fountain flanked by plush couches and potted plants softens the room, and, of course, I have classical music piped in.
The day I met the shot-putter, I had an appointment with a woman and her brother. Their father had died and his wish was to be cremated and then have a memorial mass at one of the local Catholic churches—after which, half of him was to be buried in the diocesan cemetery and the other half scattered in the ocean. Their father had been in the Navy during the Second World War, and he wanted to be with his wife (who already was in the cemetery) as well as his mistress, the sea. Fine, that’s the beauty of cremation; many wishes can be fulfilled regarding the remains, while with a traditional burial, the person can only be interred in one place.
In talking to the mourners in my office, I learned their father had been something of a Renaissance man. Not only had he been a rough-and-tumble sailor, but he had enjoyed building ship models, taught himself to play the piano, and in his later years, took gourmet cooking classes at the local community college. Before we went into the selection room, his daughter told me, “I think we should put Dad in something that will fit his personality: masculine, yet artistic, and blue… for the sea.”
