Thursday – Acting Up at Funerals

[ninanevermore]

Today on my drive into work, I was thinking about misbehaving at funerals, and how I no longer do it. It took me more years than most to outgrow the tendency, but I finally figured out that it's just plain wrong. I kind of owed Leslie an apology about her father's funeral when I was 20, but she died not knowing it was me that caused all the trouble. She blamed my cousin, Aly, instead.

(Aly, I'm sorry, but what I figured was this: it was better that she just be upset at you for giggling during her father's eulogy, rather than have her be mad at both of us. I've always believed that while confession is good for the soul, it's lousy for personal relationships. I own up to being a complete coward, though, if that makes you feel any kinder toward me.)

It was during one of our phone calls that Leslie mentioned how hard her father's death had hit her, and how awful the day of his funeral was for her. The behavior of other relatives came up. There is one branch of the family, a group of unmarried sisters, who traditionally wailed and bawled and went into hysterics at every funeral. One of them would always get so hysterical that the pasture would have to pause while escorted her outside the chapel to be. She didn't do this at my Uncle Doug's funeral, though; Leslie nipped it in the bud.

"I took her aside that day and I said, 'Listen, this is my daddy's funeral, and you are going to behave yourself and be a lady this one time, because I'm not putting up with any bullshit today. No one's going to comfort you and take care of you; if you start that shit here at my daddy's, I'm going to take you outside and kick your ass, you hear me?' And you know what? She behaved herself. That's all it took."

I expressed awe. I had no idea Leslie had done this. Then again, she was the only in the family who would do something like that.

"She did it at everyone else's funeral: your mama's, Nanny and Papaw's, Clay's, all of them. I wasn't gonna put up with it. Enough is enough."

I didn't even remember her doing it at my mother's service. Those loud wails and sobs were such a part of our family funerals that they didn't even register as memorable.

"Yeah, she was good as gold, but not everyone was. Aly was laughing during part of it. I was so upset at her, acting like that while my daddy lay in his coffin. I mean, what's wrong with that child?"

I was glad at that moment that Leslie was 700 miles away from me, and that she was not able to see that I was sitting with my head in my hand, looking very, very guilty. I was what was wrong with that child. Aly laughed that day because I made her laugh. She was 18 and I was 20, and we were both on the immature side of things. Our aunts and uncles were already middle-aged when we were born. As a result we attended a lot of funerals from an early age, and they didn't freak us out the way they do some people. We generally behaved ourselves, often by slipping out and goofing off in the lobby or the ladies room. But at this funeral the widow, our Aunt Jo, asked that we sit in the area off to the side behind the screen where the immediate family sits secluded. This area is not easy to slip out of and go hang out in the ladies room. When you are immediate family at a funeral, you are expected to stay put and sob into your Kleenex. We were trapped.

I want make it clear that I liked my Uncle Doug. He was a good and decent man, and I was sad to see him go. Still, Aly and I both lived a good distance from my aunt and uncle, and since we saw only them only a couple times a year, the emotional impact of his death was muted. As the eulogy and the bible verses dragged on and on and on, we started to get a little restless.

Because we would be riding in the limo to the gravesite after the service, we were advised to leave our purses in the limo rather than keep them with us. I am almost never without my purse; as a diabetic, I keep both the machine that I use to monitor my blood sugar and a stash of candy in it. Because I would not be able to leave the funeral chapel easily without disturbing everyone, I figured I'd better keep a few pieces of hard candy on me, in case of emergency.* Because the good Sunday dress I wore did not have any pockets, I put the candy in the handy emergency pockets that all women hide things from time to time – the cups of my brassier.

At some point during the service, I decided to look for the candy to make sure it was accessible should I need it. I peaked down between my breasts. Nothing. As subtly as I could, I ran my hand along the side of one breast, then the other, looking for 3 lumps in the shape of peppermint candies. Again, nothing. I started to panic. Where on earth could they be?

I looked over at Aly sitting beside me. She had been watching me the whole time and her eyes were tearing up, though not from grief. She had her hand clamped over her mouth trying not to laugh, but I could tell it was a matter of time before she lost the battle. I put my finger to my lips and shushed her, but that didn't help. She choked a little. I shook my head, and mouthed the words, stop it. She shut her eyes tight, her shoulders heaving from the silent laughter she was fighting so hard to contain. I returned to the search for my lost candy.

My breasts were obviously sugar-free, so I ran my hand down my abdomen, finally discovering a lump wrapped in cellophane down around my waist. The dress buttoned up the front, so I opened the buttons in the vicinity of my navel and retrieved one, then two, then three red and white peppermints from my dress. This is when Aly lost her battle and laughed out loud, almost falling out her chair when she did. I re-buttoned my dress and sat up straight in my chair, putting my face in my hands to hide my own laughter, though it seems at least some of those present gave me credit for being overwhelmed with grief. This made Aly the only known miscreant at the funeral.

I'm proud to say that we made it through the rest of the eulogy without incident.

Sadly, Aly's reputation suffered from this incident. She is the one who people shake their head and say can't be trusted to behave at funerals. I know better. She is perfectly capable of behaving at funerals, provided she doesn't sit next to me.




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* Eating hard candy is a convenient way bring my blood sugar up when it starts to dip too low from having too much insulin in my body.

Comments

[noblwish.livejournal.com]

This explains a LOT, ya' know! :D

If anyone's to blame, it's Aunt Jo for always choosing such preachy (and therefore, LONG) funerals. Besides, when you've been exposed to grief at a young age, you learn some funky ways to cope -- like laughter. But I don't have to tell YOU that.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Yes, let's blame Aunt Jo. :D

We saw each other so seldom back then, and since we were kids we naturally gravitated toward play when we did. We did this at Christmas and family reunions, so funerals weren't that different.

Leslie forgave you, because you are the family dingbat* and people don't hold this stuff against you. I suspect she expected better from me, because when I'm not with you I hide the dingbat part of myself so well. Leslie's bad side was not a good place to be, and since you were already forgiven I figured it was best to stay safe and sound on her good side.

Then there is the whole thing about me being a chickensh*t...



* I hope this isn't news to you.

Dingbat... not so much

[noblwish.livejournal.com]

I'm the babyest of the baby-girls and Hell will most likely freeze over before anyone in that family sees me as an adult. Until we moved up, I think a lot of them saw me as a mystery, growing up so far away and being raised so very differently. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), I've since spent enough time with them to become more a part of the family. But I'll always be the babyest girl.

Now, my Mom's side of the family REALLY thinks I'm a Dingbat, but that's just 'cuz I take after my Daddy so much.

Re: Dingbat... not so much

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Oh, so the dingbat thing is news to you.

We always saw you as sweet, but strange and silly. You laughed too much, at the oddest times. You were such an odd, beautiful child, and that is how they - we - saw you. Your parents were blamed for raising you in such weird environments, but not harshly, because of the tragedy that surrounded you all.

I'm the enigma from birth; you had to grow into your status as enigma. ;)

[welfy.livejournal.com]

I just laughed out loud, too! But luckily I'm in the privacy of my own home, and not a funeral. :^P

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

They say that laughter is the best medicine, but there are some places where medicine is looked down on.

[prdct.livejournal.com]

i'm terrible at funerals. i'm the type that starts laughing because i'm so uncomfortable. it's totally not something i can control (same thing happens if someone is violently angry with me). my husband has to hide my face when it happens. which in hindsight is quite humorous.

btw - great stories! i just caught up on the past few i missed.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

The trick is to put your face in your hands and look like you're crying. Laughter muffled by hands sounds a lot like sobs. Try it; it really works!

[prdct.livejournal.com]

i'll have to remember that :)

[back2me.livejournal.com]

I once got a case of the giggles at a funeral, and I don't even know why I was laughing. I think I was 14 or 15 at the time. I remember feeling terrible and knowing it was wrong but I could NOT stop.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Some people do that when they're nervous, or just in a heightened emotional state in general. Laughter is a release valve (albeit not always an appropriate one that people will understand).

[back2me.livejournal.com]

That's a very logical explanation.

Funerals

[poetlady.livejournal.com]

I have an unusual problem at funerals. To some extent, I cry too easy. I mean, I'll be wiping away tears at the funeral of my husband's cousin's wife who I never met alive. Even though it seems perhaps appropriate it feels wrong in a way, I feel people will look at me and be like, "SHE has no right to cry, she never even knew the woman. Look at her trying to get attention."

And I am NOT I just sympathize WAY too easy. I rarely cry "in real life."

So I don't know which is worse.

Maria

Re: Funerals

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

I think tears are a natural, sympathetic reaction. Crying at the funeral of a stranger is no worse than crying at a movie because a make-believe character on the screen has just slipped into the icy waters of the Atlantic ocean while his girlfriend clings to a piece of debris from the Titanic (hey, I admit, I cried during that scene). You see the grief around you, and their loss touches you.

It makes a lot more sense than crying at weddings, in my opinion. :)

[kindbydesign.livejournal.com]

My friend Drew broke into uncontrollable laughter at his own mother's wake, and took a few of his friends down with him. He just wasn't expecting the priest to have such a pronounced lisp. I was sitting in the same row and managed to completely miss what was going on, so I'm still his parents' "good" child...or at least the most oblivious.

You're totally right, though, at the moment, I thought he was putting his head in his hands to cry, not laugh.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

I was at one funeral where the priest had a lisp, and I found myself thinking of the priest in The Princess Bride, who in the wedding scene intones, "Mawwage. Mawwage is what bwings us togevah today. Mawwage, that bwessed awwangement, that dweam wifin a dweam." I expect this priests to say, "Fwoonewal. A fwoonewal is what bwings us togevah today..." I didn't laugh, though I did have to hide my smile behind my hand and try to look like I was choking up with emotion.