I hate funerals. I don’t hate them because they are sad, we must deal with loss. I don’t hate them because they are gloomy or heavy occasions, I can handle heavy gloom, I have worn it for years. I hate them because at each funeral you will see the most painful lies and truths exposed.
I remember arriving at the ugly apartment that my grandfather had moved to after giving up the family home. It had two front doors, attempting to add a sense of luxury, but instead producing another example of how ridiculous the ‘70s were. My grandfather was a socialite of the city. He was always out somewhere, engaged in wine tastings or watching plays, classical ensembles, having dinner with with doctors and lawyers who pretended to understand art.
He had not been seen or heard from in a few days, though we had just now pieced that together. He was hard to keep track of. My mother, though the black sheep of the family, was the most trusted. That is why the apartment’s management had called her. She was listed as an emergency contact, and they needed permission to enter the apartment. My grandfather had befriended an older lady who he was supposed to have dinner with and he hadn’t called or shown up. This lady lived in the same complex and knocked on his door. She got no response. My mother gave them permission than made her way over.
When I finally arrived with my wife the family was forced to wait over in the living room while paramedics removed his body from the bathroom. It appeared that he was in the process of using the toilet when his heart gave out. He slumped forward, cracking his head on the tub and then lying there for days. They EMT personnel kept us from seeing anything, but that mattered little. I stood next to the brown leather sofa that had been my grandmother’s favorite place to lay down and watch her soaps as she struggled with the cancer that killed her, and smelled grandfather as his rot wafted out of the small bathroom.
My mother was red eyed, barely holding it in. My uncle had a lost look that always seemed to be plastered to his face, though this time it seemed being lost was actually painful for him. His wife smoked and drank from a forty-four ounce soda cup. My aunt Claudia was trying to be sad and assert some control over the situation. I felt this was inappropriate. This was just a time to grieve, not make plans or conduct affairs. She had an excuse though, the apartment complex needed things cleared out, rent was due. My cousins, they moved about the apartment claiming first dibs on items they liked. Everyone seemed to be having a cigarette. I had wished that I still smoked, if only to disguise my disgust.
The funeral came quickly after that. It was a large affair, he was a man about town. The room the funeral parlor had given us was packed, standing room only. Outside the door to the room was a large TV that was playing a series photos from my grandfather’s life with music he enjoyed. So many people came to pay their respects. People he had dined with, helped out somehow, and people who just plain respected the man. His wine tasting buddies were there. The young opera singer he helped out and who given me some help with vocal coaching. The guys he played golf with and the guys he bought wine from. The members of his Jester order, high ranking Shriners. Tony, who was a foreign exchange student he had taken in, had prepared words to say about his adopted father.
I had words to say as well. I stood at this podium complete with a microphone like a college professor. I had the paper with the eulogy I had written before me, but I didn’t need it. My grandfather had asked me when I was fourteen to write and speak the eulogy for his mother’s funeral, which I did. I wasn’t about to let him down at his own funeral. I looked out at this huge crowd and recognized many, others not so much, and I told them about my grandfather taking me to wine tastings before I could drink. He would hold out a glass and ask me to smell it. I would, then tell him what I smelled and he would taste to tell me if I was right. I remembered the question asked, “What do you smell?” being a question about life. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you taste? What is in front of you? What can you take from life so that you can live it, understand it, love it? I told these people what I should have told the dead man in the closed casket, that I would remember and pass on what he taught. I would teach my children to learn, understand and love life and friends. I promised, though didn’t understand any of it and was a poor student of people and relationships. I still promised.
I sat with the rest of the family holding my wife’s hand as people filed by and silently wished Fredrick Clayton Hall a restful sleep. This took a long time. So many walked past but only after the members of the Shriner order did so first, and there were so many of them. The funeral parlor told us that somewhere around three hundred people signed in. We were already on the grounds of the cemetery so after a short trip we laid him in the dirt next to his wife, my grandmother.
It wasn’t long after that the family began to divide up his belongings. My aunt greedily laid claim to items citing a need for them, like some jealous child who felt ignored her whole life. My uncle’s wife did the same, always looking to her husband for support. My uncle wasn’t interested, he just said whatever. My cousins ran around grabbing things and asking, “Can I have this?” My mother, myself, my wife and my stepfather, a man I have a great deal of respect for, all stood in a corner next to the balcony, looking at the others. I am sure if they weren’t so busy pillaging the apartment they would have noticed the unfriendly looks on our faces. While I did take a few things myself I did so only after everyone else was done. I was not going to fight over the dead’s belongings. That was the last time I was together with everyone from that side of my family. I have seen them here and there, but I have never been interested in visiting with them.
My grandfather’s funeral left me with questions and concerns. I was concerned that I might raise a family like the one I was apart of. I think I have been doing a good job of avoiding that fate. Plus, I doubt I will leave anything for my children to fight over, such has been my economic fortunes.
I can’t shake the memory of all those people and what that meant. My grandfather, though well know, wasn’t a powerful person. These people came then out of respect and love, not seeking advancement or to be seen. Many people came to me after the funeral and told me how moved they were by my speech, sounding more sincere and upset at the loss than my own flesh and blood.
I had to ask myself if this was some measure of success. The fact that so many people would miss Fred, counted for something, some kind of success. So, what if no one had shown up? What if no one had noticed he was even missing? Would that have meant he was a failure? A failure at life, at humanity? I could then, outside of my wife, count very few people who would care or notice my passing. Did this mean I was failing? Did this mean that the lessons taught to me by the wine glass had fallen on an incapable mind, an unfeeling soul? If you loved life then you loved people and had relations that were worthy of your time and respect. That was part of what he was teaching me. Yet, years later I resemble nothing of him and his relations. I am still failing my promise?
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