Thank you so much Bronwyn! Glad I could make you laugh :D
Non-fiction / Death, Taxes and Other Uncertain Things in my Life
You think I’d be used to death by now. You think it’d be my best friend, sitting across from me at the local coffee shop, just chewing the proverbial fat. I’ve had plenty of second-hand experiences with it, yet very few which have affected me personally.
I grew up across the street from the town cemetery, so death was a part of my daily existence. As kids, my friends and I would watch that foreboding, black hearse from a distance, just waiting for the mourners to dissipate.
As soon as they were gone, we’d race over to check out the newest occupant. There was something about that fresh dirt, and what lay underneath that transfixed us. We’d check out the flowers and other knick-knacks that people left there.
Then, quickly becoming bored, we’d move on to the rest of the joint. In the eyes of a kid (at least this former one), the cemetery was a most excellent playground. There were hills, trees, and best of all, gravestones to jump off of. At night, it was the perfect place to play Bloody Murder (appropriate name, don’t you think?) Those old, towering monuments made wonderful hiding places. In the winter, we’d delight in “skating” on the cement flatbeds, with our boots, of course.
Another great thing about this cemetery was all the cool stuff that got tossed out in the nearby ditch. Every few days, we’d check out that ditch and pull out all kinds of plastic flowers, wreaths and tacky animals that used to be on the graves. I remember bringing home an especially pretty (but fake) bouquet of flowers, proudly giving it to my mom. She was not pleased.
Then there were the actual encounters with dead bodies. Those started as soon as I entered Kindergarten at the local parochial school. Just a stone’s throw away was a church, one that was filled with old people just waiting to have their funerals there.
My school had a strong music program, led by this sweet, old German man (he, of course, was too busy and talented to die. I think he was still playing the organ at 96). He got everyone involved in music, even the few kids who were completely tone-deaf. I think he handed them some maracas or something. Everyone else was expected to sing their little hearts out, because that’s what Lutherans were known for, that and kick-ass potlucks.
Whenever there was a funeral (and there were a LOT of them), our music director would ask the deceased’s family if they would like a children’s choir to sing, and almost always, they said yes. So, there I was, part of the elite choir that was requested to sing, and wouldn’t you know, there was no choir loft in the balcony or anything like that. No, the choir section was right in front of the church, over to the left. Let’s just say we had front-row seats to all the funerals. Doesn’t sound too appealing, does it? But, as kids, we LOVED it. That meant we got to REALLY see the dead body, lying in state at the front of the church. We’d observe for the entire hour (except for the 5 minutes we spent singing) and then go back to the classroom and madly discuss the state of the body. Why would they bury someone with their glasses on? They don’t need to see. Where were their feet? Were they wearing shoes under there? How about underwear?
Even more fascinating than the dead body, were the emotional outbursts of the mourners. You have to remember, we were kids. Death was just another part of life. We didn’t understand it, and it had no meaning to us. Now if that were a beloved pet, we would’ve been right there, blubbering and blowing our noses with the rest of them.
By the time I was 10, I had probably come within 10 feet of hundreds of dead people. I still can’t decide if I’m proud of that fact.
All the while this was going on, we had a classmate who was dying of Leukemia. He was hardly at school, alternating between his home and the local hospital. Back in the day, childhood leukemia was pretty much a death sentence; there was no known cure.
Jimmy died on New Years’ Day and his second-grade class was all invited to the viewing at the funeral home. We had all been separated for 2 weeks during the Christmas holiday, so of course, we were excited to see each other. I can remember some of the boys chasing the girls around the somber halls of the funeral home, and hearing the gasps of the elderly. But Jimmy’s mom loved it. She welcomed the breath of fresh air to what must have been a long, draining day. As an adult now, and having experienced the death of my dad, I can understand how she felt. Laughter and humor are desperately needed at times of mourning.
Here’s a story I remember about Jimmy. He had a blonde crew-cut. In fact, he looked very similar to another little snot in my class. But one day, he came to school with BROWN, wavy hair. We couldn’t figure it out. My parents later told me, that I came home that day and announced that there was a new kid in our class who looked a lot like Jimmy, only he wasn’t Jimmy. I remember someone trying to touch his hair, and he got all upset. Why didn’t someone sit us down and tell us what was going on? Did they think 8-year-olds couldn’t handle hearing about hair loss and wearing a wig?
I don’t think I’ve ever touched a dead body before, but I am pretty sure I won’t forget their smell. At least, I thought it was their smell. You know how they say that your sense of smell is the strongest memory sense? It’s true. There was this aroma that permeated every funeral I sang at and I always thought it was the dead body, in its earliest form of decay.
Later in life, I figured out that smell was roses. Imagine my poor college boyfriend who spontaneously presented me with a dozen of them one day. He wasn’t quite prepared for my reaction. It wasn’t pretty. That smell brought back so many memories, and dead bodies is not what you want to picture when your boyfriend is standing there, looking to get some after giving you flowers.
During my high school years, I didn’t have to go to funerals anymore, unless someone in our family died, which were only really old people.
Then came the call from the town (and only) funeral director and his wife. They wanted me to babysit their 2 young children. You see, I was getting a reputation for being a fabulous babysitter. Maybe it’s because I actually played with the kids, especially all those rowdy boys in town. I’d just take them over to the cemetery for a rousing game of Bloody Murder. They loved me.
So when I was asked, I thought, “no problem”. When I arrived the following evening, there was a long list of instructions. Not for the kids, for they would be going to bed soon. This list was in case a call came in from a possible client, meaning when someone died. I’d have to take their name and number and information, and (they warned me) the person might be a bit incoherent due to their grief. Good grief! How much could a 14-year-old take?
The entire night I couldn’t relax. I sat there with the TV off, just waiting for (more like, dreading) a call. All the while, I was increasingly becoming aware of what was directly below me in the lower level – the funeral director’s “lab”. This was the place where he did all his work on the dead bodies. I knew what it looked like, because we went there on a field trip in 4th grade. The thought of it, all dark and vacant (at least I hoped there wasn’t a dead body down there!) gave me the creeps. Between that and the phone (which thankfully, never rang), I was a nervous wreck. Needless to say, I never babysat there again.
So I can’t say that all this early experience with death helped me. It didn’t prepare me for the deaths of my beloved grandpa and my dad. As an adult, I’m still not comfortable going to funerals. Guess I’m going to have to start singing for them again. Maybe I will find something amusing, like wondering if they’re wearing underwear. Hopefully there won’t be any roses.
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RoadHousePress reviewed Version 3 -
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First I want to tell you to grab your pen and write! You have the ability to uses images and facts to draw people into the cemetery. You have a gold mine here. Talent and material. Now think about what I am going to say, think about a collection of short stories.. let your imagination blend in with the experiences that you have and fictionalize! If this is what you do when you are only messing around getting things out of your head, then all I can say is.. Bravo for you! Young adult audiences need literature that is salt of the earth kind of story where they can laugh and go to the cemetery on these excursions.. or even the babysitting tales. There are so many possibilities and I think you have the skill to pull it off!
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Bronwyn reviewed Version 3 -
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I really enjoyed this! Took me back to the days when I was a teenager, hanging out in the cemetery, drinking beer and scaring ourselves half to death.
I also laughed out loud about the part about Lutheran kids being expected to sing their hearts out. Ditto!!
Your voice is simply wonderful throughout this whole piece.
Great job. Keep writing!
analise reviewed Version 3 -
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I really liked this look at the memories of someone else. It’s definitely a unique take on funerals and death. I was sure the smell you were talking about was going to be formaldehyde or some other preservative chemical (I can still smell it from years after biology class) so it amused me that the scent you associate with death and decay is roses though I can certainly see where you’d get that from.
Your talking about running around a funeral as kids reminded me when my great grandmother died. I was just a kid then and had no idea what was going on. I’d never even met her. I remember just dodging my way through a forest of grown-up legs.
I like cemetaries but I hate funerals.
Anyway, all in all, thank you for sharing your memories, I liked reading them.
jarodkintz reviewed Version 2 -
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Sweet. Nicely writeen essay. It flowed like a fontain, and was just as tranquil. Maybe I’m just too comfortable with death, but it seems like you’ve got it worked out too. especially since you used to play in one as a kid. And I do think a cemetary at night is exciting, though I’m not sure if I would have played in one as a kid (I’d have been too scared). They say the best way to get over a trauma, and I assume death is in this category, is to write about it. Release the catharsis. Anyway, another lovely piece.
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