kellinator (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
kellinator) wrote2003-02-06 01:59 am
kellinator) wrote2003-02-06 01:59 am
The funeral
The funeral was an embarrassment to my grandmother.
Two indisputable standards of Southern funerals are food and flowers. There was hardly any of either. The lack of flowers were because we made an "in lieu of" announcement for a couple of local charities, but as far as I'm concerned there was no excuse for the food. The other families at the funeral home had tables laden with food and at least sixty floral arrangements apiece, and there we were, shoved in the smallest room, as if to say "Everyone thought she was dead already." Which I suppose she kinda was, but I wanted to run through the halls screaming "THIS WAS MY GRANDMOTHER AND SHE WAS IMPORTANT."
The one thing that was right... well, I'm always the smartass sitting at the back in funerals going "they don't look asleep, they look DEAD," and reading The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford last year has made me extremely cynical about the funeral industry, but the morticians did a lovely job with my grandmother. She looked like she did ten years ago, when she was still herself, and that's how I want to remember her.
Apparently the new "thing" for funerals in Pulaski is to send ceramic cherubs. We got ten and a church. One or two might have been okay, but ten was cause for sneaking out back and making a call to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
atomicnumber51. ("I figure if everyone else gets to go outside for a smoke break, I should get to call you.") The man in the next room had twenty, a church, and a three-foot-tall lighthouse.
I believe I have mentioned my uncle Dale before, but I will do so again just in case you missed it. Dale is my mother's older brother. He is a Southern Baptist preacher. In my opinion, he is also a grade-A crock of shit and a person I'm embarrassed to admit I share genes with. Despite my grandmother's adoration of him as the oldest surviving child and the only surviving son, he totally abdicated any responsibility for his declining mother, content to let my mom do all the stressful, unpleasant, and totally heartbreaking caretaking. Mom was at Granny's side every weekend at the beginning and at the nursing home every day at the end, but Dale had more "important" things to do. Rumor has it he's already promised my grandmother's house to friends of his, without discussing this with my mother of course. My father, no caretaker himself, has done more to help out than Dale has. (And proving that preacher's kids are hellraisers, two of his three kids are currently in trouble with the law for allegedly selling stolen car parts on EBay. None of them have ever heard of birth control. Basically, Dale makes my dad's side of the family -- the side that's prone to depression, alcoholism, and being right bastards just because we can (i.e., the part-Irish side) -- look downright respectable.)
The funeral started with Dale leaping up to the microphone to thank everyone. I later found out this was his way of attempting to avoid having to write thank-you notes. He immediately found a way to make reference to Dubya's Columbia speech. Okay. Let's put aside my disgust with the man, my mother's disgust (which my uncle is well aware of). Those don't matter. What matters is my grandmother hated Reagan and she also hated Bush Sr., and I fully believe she would have hated the Shrub even more. She would have been pissed to say the least.
Then there was some music. Instead of a nice organist or pianist, Dale got some gosh-awful recordings of white-bread gospel. Probably someone from his church recorded them. My grandmother deserved real music.
Then the preacher began the service. I don't know the preacher. He's apparently the last preacher my grandmother had, and I doubt he knew her at all. He started with some vagaries about what a nice lady Sallye was, which could have been said about anyone, especially since my grandmother didn't waste time with being a lady when she could get something done a lot quicker her way. Then he announced that he could say a lot of nice things about Sister Sallye, but Sister Sallye was so devout that she would have wanted him to preach to the living instead of the dead. He then launched into an old-style Southern Baptist altar call that lasted about twenty minutes. I realize that this is standard operating procedure, but it's still tacky and was no sort of consolation to me, and I'm even a Christian. I needed to hear nice memories of my grandmother.
But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that this preacher basically directed the sermon to one person: Brother Dale. Brother Dale this and Brother Dale that. Brother-Dale-I-know-what-you're-going-through. Brother Dale mentioned at least a dozen times; my mother mentioned maybe twice. My mother who did everything. My mother who held it together. My dear, strong mother, who's ten times the person Brother Dale can ever hope to be.
Brother Dale sat on the other end of the pew yelling "Amen" every thirty seconds to make sure everyone knew that he's a preacher.
I occupied myself by wondering if there was a God, trying to decide which of the ceramic cherubs I could do the most damage to Dale's head with, and using every ounce of will I had to keep from making a scene. Really, I wish that I'd had the strength to make a scene. It would have cemented my reputation as Crazy Cousin Kelly (which is actually a good thing), but it would have been worth it to show those Pharisees for what they are. But my mother never would have forgiven me. I had to make to with figuring that the Jesus I believe in, the Jesus who threw the merchants out of the Temple, would have agreed with me that this was total garbage.
Of course, I'm the biggest hypocrite of all. Afterwards I hugged Dale and when he said "I love you," I said "me too."
I've discovered in the past few days that getting angry is a whole lot easier than actually dealing with anything.
Two indisputable standards of Southern funerals are food and flowers. There was hardly any of either. The lack of flowers were because we made an "in lieu of" announcement for a couple of local charities, but as far as I'm concerned there was no excuse for the food. The other families at the funeral home had tables laden with food and at least sixty floral arrangements apiece, and there we were, shoved in the smallest room, as if to say "Everyone thought she was dead already." Which I suppose she kinda was, but I wanted to run through the halls screaming "THIS WAS MY GRANDMOTHER AND SHE WAS IMPORTANT."
The one thing that was right... well, I'm always the smartass sitting at the back in funerals going "they don't look asleep, they look DEAD," and reading The American Way of Death by Jessica Mitford last year has made me extremely cynical about the funeral industry, but the morticians did a lovely job with my grandmother. She looked like she did ten years ago, when she was still herself, and that's how I want to remember her.
Apparently the new "thing" for funerals in Pulaski is to send ceramic cherubs. We got ten and a church. One or two might have been okay, but ten was cause for sneaking out back and making a call to
atomicnumber51. ("I figure if everyone else gets to go outside for a smoke break, I should get to call you.") The man in the next room had twenty, a church, and a three-foot-tall lighthouse. I believe I have mentioned my uncle Dale before, but I will do so again just in case you missed it. Dale is my mother's older brother. He is a Southern Baptist preacher. In my opinion, he is also a grade-A crock of shit and a person I'm embarrassed to admit I share genes with. Despite my grandmother's adoration of him as the oldest surviving child and the only surviving son, he totally abdicated any responsibility for his declining mother, content to let my mom do all the stressful, unpleasant, and totally heartbreaking caretaking. Mom was at Granny's side every weekend at the beginning and at the nursing home every day at the end, but Dale had more "important" things to do. Rumor has it he's already promised my grandmother's house to friends of his, without discussing this with my mother of course. My father, no caretaker himself, has done more to help out than Dale has. (And proving that preacher's kids are hellraisers, two of his three kids are currently in trouble with the law for allegedly selling stolen car parts on EBay. None of them have ever heard of birth control. Basically, Dale makes my dad's side of the family -- the side that's prone to depression, alcoholism, and being right bastards just because we can (i.e., the part-Irish side) -- look downright respectable.)
The funeral started with Dale leaping up to the microphone to thank everyone. I later found out this was his way of attempting to avoid having to write thank-you notes. He immediately found a way to make reference to Dubya's Columbia speech. Okay. Let's put aside my disgust with the man, my mother's disgust (which my uncle is well aware of). Those don't matter. What matters is my grandmother hated Reagan and she also hated Bush Sr., and I fully believe she would have hated the Shrub even more. She would have been pissed to say the least.
Then there was some music. Instead of a nice organist or pianist, Dale got some gosh-awful recordings of white-bread gospel. Probably someone from his church recorded them. My grandmother deserved real music.
Then the preacher began the service. I don't know the preacher. He's apparently the last preacher my grandmother had, and I doubt he knew her at all. He started with some vagaries about what a nice lady Sallye was, which could have been said about anyone, especially since my grandmother didn't waste time with being a lady when she could get something done a lot quicker her way. Then he announced that he could say a lot of nice things about Sister Sallye, but Sister Sallye was so devout that she would have wanted him to preach to the living instead of the dead. He then launched into an old-style Southern Baptist altar call that lasted about twenty minutes. I realize that this is standard operating procedure, but it's still tacky and was no sort of consolation to me, and I'm even a Christian. I needed to hear nice memories of my grandmother.
But that's not even the worst part. The worst part is that this preacher basically directed the sermon to one person: Brother Dale. Brother Dale this and Brother Dale that. Brother-Dale-I-know-what-you're-going-through. Brother Dale mentioned at least a dozen times; my mother mentioned maybe twice. My mother who did everything. My mother who held it together. My dear, strong mother, who's ten times the person Brother Dale can ever hope to be.
Brother Dale sat on the other end of the pew yelling "Amen" every thirty seconds to make sure everyone knew that he's a preacher.
I occupied myself by wondering if there was a God, trying to decide which of the ceramic cherubs I could do the most damage to Dale's head with, and using every ounce of will I had to keep from making a scene. Really, I wish that I'd had the strength to make a scene. It would have cemented my reputation as Crazy Cousin Kelly (which is actually a good thing), but it would have been worth it to show those Pharisees for what they are. But my mother never would have forgiven me. I had to make to with figuring that the Jesus I believe in, the Jesus who threw the merchants out of the Temple, would have agreed with me that this was total garbage.
Of course, I'm the biggest hypocrite of all. Afterwards I hugged Dale and when he said "I love you," I said "me too."
I've discovered in the past few days that getting angry is a whole lot easier than actually dealing with anything.
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Hm.
Depantsing and unexpected fire have always been an amusing combination.
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...I specialize in reducing assholes to their component atoms, via eloquently enraged speeches and/or letters. Ask
Might I just have your uncle's email or snail mail address, Kells dear? *wicked grin*
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I don't see it that way. If you just said "me too", that means you ALSO love yourself. Which means you're finally starting to get a higher self-image and self-esteem. Which means progress. Which is good.
I'm very sorry for your loss but I agree that your grandmother is probably better off. I'm also sorry you had to put up with what you went through. I lost a friend recently too, as you know, but at least my friend Thomas Fuller was given a nice send-off, so we didn't have to put up with what you did.
cheers,
Phil
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Of course, I'm the biggest hypocrite of all. Afterwards I hugged Dale and when he said "I love you," I said "me too."
When I was younger I'd fly in the face of hypocrisy at the most inappropriate times...but, now...there are fights that are worth having, and there are fights that aren't. Sometimes it really is better just to duck aside.
*many more hugs*
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;>
i think you handled yourself well and you have every justification in being pissed and upset.
*hug*
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hugses
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Just think of your grandmother looking at it and laughing. She knows the real story.
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Let's be honest, Pulaski was never a forward thinking town, but that was ridiculous. Give me "Brother Dale"'s addy and I'll egg his car next time I go see my family there.
You weren't the hypocrite there, you did the right thing. I have no patience for people who treat christianity as their personal soap box.
I'm sorry you've been through so much, and you know you can call me anytime.
(7) 931-8574, (6) 467-2699
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It's an interesting town. Full of very odd people.
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I don't think you were a hypocrite. I think you realize that that wasn't the time or the place to delve into what a hypocrite your uncle is.
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I know exactly who your uncle and cousins are! I just called my aunt to confirm - you are kin by marriage to Dana and I! I'll be damned. We're like, 2nd or 3rd cousins by marriage. ROFL! I knew the story of your cousins getting caught selling car parts on ebay was familiar, so I called my aunt (who is from Pulaski) and she had told me about it not long ago. She knew your grandmother and the whole bunch, although I think it wasn't very close. TOO WIERD!
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How are we related? What is your aunt's name?
This is so cool!! The only surprise is that we didn't figure it out long ago ;)
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So, we're like not REALLY REALLY related, but hey, it works for me, ya know?
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Sometime we'll have to get you up with our mom and have her figure out all the other ways you're related. She's a professional geneologist.
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Reading about your experience has really brought up memories of my grandmother's funeral where the preacher did not know her at all, and of my grandfather's where a version of Uncle Dale was very present.
I am sure your grandmother is very proud to have a granddaughter like you.
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"This is God, Chet. We need to have a talk."
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Hugs & condolences