Mortuary Confidential

PART IV Wakes, Funerals, and Burials

I was sitting outside a funeral one day when two men pulled pistols and had a good ol’ fashioned shootout before my very eyes. Surprised? I sure as hell was, but as at any social event, anything can happen at a funeral, and usually does. Sometimes the attendees’ tensions boil over as seen in “Wake Combat.” Other times some total, random, external force that has nothing to do with the funeral, can affect it, as in “Duel at High Noon.” Either way, wild stuff can, and does, happen. I hope, though, you’ll never have to attend a funeral as “exciting” as some in this section.

What exactly is a funeral?

We’ve all been to them, some of you readers have even arranged them, and they’re never joyous occasions, so why do we even bother having them? A funeral is the ceremonial marking of someone’s death. It’s a rite of passage just like a baptism, wedding, or graduation, all important events. The traditional flow of the American funeral includes a wake (interchangeable with “viewing”), funeral service, and then a burial.

There is still that “traditional” template, but in 21st century America there is no standard. Families today have a lot of choices, sometimes I think too many. With the increase in popularity of cremation, not to mention the burgeoning demand for green burial, the sky is the limit for memorialization and funeralization. Whatever the wishes of the family, the funeral director’s goal is to provide a personalized memorable occasion.

Unfortunately, there is a common pitfall. Many companies advertise funeral products that boast they will create a memorable service. But in fact, products will not create memories. People do. I think this point will become evident in a story like “A Hug, a Hope.” Don’t get me wrong, products can certainly augment a service, but a certain type of stationery can’t replace the memory of a granddaughter singing a favorite song of her grandmother’s during the service, or an honor guard presenting a flag for one of America’s fallen heroes.

While having dinner with my parents not too long ago, I told them about my latest book—the one you’re reading now. After hearing its premise, my dad demanded a “for instance.” I told him about “Duel at High Noon.” At the end he said, “How come this is the first time I’m hearing about this!”

“I was saving it for the book,” I told him. “You’re just going to have to wait and read the rest.”

So, read on.

CHAPTER 29 My Bar Story Contributed by a part-time model

What’s the craziest thing that’s ever happened to you?”

I invariably hear this after someone finds out that I’m in the funeral business. People are insatiably curious about the dead and those who work around them. Of course, I would hate to disappoint anyone, so I happily share the most outlandish, ridiculous thing that has ever happened to me in my life. It’s the tale of a dead Jesuit priest and it’s usually told in bars.

The funeral home I used to work for was located near a Jesuit-run high school. We had a contract with the order to provide funeral services when one of its members died.

Let me give you a little background. The Jesuits are a religious order of the Roman Catholic Church, formed in the 16th century by Saint Ignatius of Loyola. Their members can be found in over 100 countries, where they are associated with higher learning and run a number of high schools and universities.

My adventure began when one of the priests, who we’ll call “Father Iggy” in honor of the founder of the order, died. Father Iggy was an English teacher at the high school who coached a number of sports teams and was a generally upstanding guy. The students loved and respected him as a teacher, coach, and mentor, and former students routinely called upon him to perform their weddings. From what I heard, Father Iggy was also an active volunteer in the community and was recognized by the Pope himself for his service. When he died, I was assigned to handle his funeral.

I had handled several big ceremonies and was confident in my ability to handle the services for a well-known priest.

I did the removal from the rectory and embalmed Father Iggy. The following day I met with the senior priest and set the details of the funeral: an evening viewing in the church, Mass of Christian Burial the following day, and burial in the local Catholic cemetery.

On the morning of the viewing, a couple of Jesuits came over and we dressed Father Iggy in the priest’s traditional black cassock. I applied the barest traces of makeup on his face to give him a little ruddiness and put him in the most economical casket available. Our “cloth covered casket,” or “minimum casket,” is basically fiberboard covered with black felt called doeskin. Because of their vow of poverty, priests are laid to rest in our most basic casket. The black doeskin represents the color of the Jesuit cassock.

In addition to being minimalistic, priests’ caskets differ from others in that they have removable lids that allow the entire body to be seen, instead of just the upper-half, as is more typical. The design allows for two lines of people to file by during the viewing instead of just one. Priests usually have well-attended viewings and funerals.

I unscrewed the lid’s hinges before placing Father Iggy in the casket. Without a hitch, I transported the deceased priest to church and laid him out in the sanctuary for the viewing. The pews were rearranged to let the two lines of people file by. That evening, over eight hundred friends and acquaintances came to pay their respects.

The next day, the church was packed—standing room only. The school had the day off in observance of Father Iggy’s passing. Current students, former students, parents, members of the church, employees of the diocese, and fellow priests choked the pews and aisles.

At the proper time, I wheeled the now-closed casket into the vestibule and gathered the pallbearers to give them their instructions. On the stroke of ten, the officiating priests blessed the casket and the white cloth, or the “pall,” was placed. As the priests processed up the aisle, I signaled the pallbearers to lift the casket off the small cart called the “church truck” and carry it to its place at the front of the sanctuary. Generally we roll the casket up the aisle on the church truck, but the senior priest wanted the pallbearers to be more than ceremonial, so they carried it.

Everything went as planned until the casket reached the second pew from the front. A loud, ominous cracking sound ushered in an unsightly scene as the bottom of the casket fell out. Down with it fell Father Iggy. He hit the marble floor with an undignified thump. The crowd’s collective gasp echoed through the vaulted eaves. The pallbearers, still holding the handles of the pall-covered casket, stood dumbstruck staring down at the floor, where Father Iggy still clutched his ceremonial chalice.

I knew I had to take charge—fast.

I pushed the pallbearers to the front of the sanctuary and instructed them to lay the shell down. I shooed out the priests who occupied the front pew and asked the pallbearers to pick up Father Iggy and place him on the bench. The pallbearers were in such a state of panic that they didn’t hesitate.

Next I had the pallbearers create a human shield to spare the mourners the macabre sight of the dead man lying on the front pew. Everything happened so fast that I didn’t have time to be scared. I motioned one of my colleagues over and told him to go back to the funeral home for a new casket as quickly as possible.

While he rushed away, I dragged the remnants of the broken casket to the rear of the church. Fortunately,