I’ve gone to a lot of funerals this year. Jon’s a member of the Legion Honor Guard, so he has attended more.
This may be an unpleasant topic, but when a person is closing in on 80, certain things get your attention. Remember the commercial where an old lady cries, “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”? That used to put me in stitches. Now if a fall means just getting a few stitches, I consider that a blessing.
Funerals in the Northwoods are a bit different than in the city. They are less formal, though memorial services in general do not bring out the “proper” in some people.
Instead of suits or dress shirts, male attendees often wear T-shirts, and if they do lean a bit to proper, clean jeans. Most women still wear dresses, skirts or dress pants, but some feel visitation venues are good for showing off skin in conspicuous places. The display is hard to ignore, especially if it includes extensive body art.
I admit this lack of what I consider proper dress for a church service used to summon my judgmental side. After all, this is an occasion giving a loved one a solemn and sacred goodbye. I held but would never openly express the opinion that what some people wore was not only inappropriate; it was disrespectful, even shameful.
At a funeral I attended recently, I had my comeuppance and experienced an unexpected epiphany.
At the visitation, it was impossible not to be a bit shocked by a woman wearing a very low-cut dress. Her shoulder-to-shoulder tattoos were, shall we say, eye-catching, which I assume was her intention.
Just as I was tut-tutting to myself, I swear I heard the voice of the deceased in my head. “That’s my daughter’s friend. She came to visit me in the nursing home several times — which is more than you did, and she’s here.”
I felt my face getting red. I didn’t even know my old friend had been in a nursing home until I read the obituary. Shame on me for not keeping up on what was once a very close relationship.
I am an inveterate people-watcher, so as the service began, I couldn’t help but notice a woman chewing gum. When she accidentally popped a loud bubble, she sheepishly looked around to see if anyone noticed. Luckily, I managed to stifle my instinctive reaction to chuckle derisively. In church? Good grief.
Then came that same voice: “That woman was one of my home health care workers. She may be a little irreverent, but she was very good to me. She made it possible for me to live at home a lot longer than I might have, and she’s here.”
I was feeling an increasing unease at this paranormal scolding when to my left I noticed a guy wearing a baseball cap that was long-past-needs-washing. My first thought ordinarily would have been that he should be embarrassed. Couldn’t he at least have worn a clean cap?
By now, I wasn’t surprised by the voice that said, “That young man did yard work and fixed things around the house after my husband died. And he’s here.”
Now I was the one who was embarrassed.
To assuage my increasing discomfort, I forced myself to concentrate on the service. I honestly couldn’t help it when my attention was drawn to a teen wearing a pair of those popular ripped jeans. Not only would I never have been dressed like that in a house of worship, I’d have run away from home if my mother made me wear something like that in public.
No surprise, there was that pesky voice again.
“That’s my great niece. She sent me a lot of handmade cards, always saying how much fun she had at our family get-togethers. No, I never much liked her wardrobe choices, either, but she’s here.”
As the homily began, a time-worn man who needed a shower, shave and haircut came in late and plopped down in the opposite pew. His T-shirt proclaimed his support for a certain political viewpoint, his jeans were soiled, and his hands were calloused. I was repulsed by the tell-tale odor of cigarettes. Good Lord. What next?
“Will you just stop already?” the exasperated voice said. “That’s my nephew by marriage. He worked the night shift and drove straight up from the (Fox) Valley. He may be a little rough around the edges, but he’s here, and if God and I don’t care, why should you?”
“OK, OK, you made your point. I get the message,” I replied silently. “Thank you for reminding me what really matters, sweet lady, and just so you know, I’m really glad I’m here. See you on the other side.”
Kathleen Marsh is a lifelong educator, writer, and community advocate. She has published eight books, four on the history of Townsend, where she and husband Jon are happily retired on the beautiful Townsend Flowage.