Thread: Dad's Funeral: Dutiful Son

The following isn't a weepy story, matter of fact, there are several hilarious points. It's a story to share, and I'm just sharing it here.

The call came in at 4 a.m., my time. My father, a time zone and 800 miles away, was in a hospital. The nurse said that in the past half hour, he had had five strokes and five heart attacks-he was not expected to last the hour. I turned on a light, and started making phone calls.

I had grown up without my father. I wasn’t even sure why the call had come to me. When I was eighteen, I had tried spending several weekends with him-try to get to know him. I found out that he was a very opinionated man who didn’t know how to act around people. Furthermore, once he crossed a boundary line, instead of retreating and apologizing, he continued on-like a runaway train. Those few weekends were enough, I crossed him off of my list.

My sister Margie was close to him. She was the only one in the family still talking to him. Perhaps, she’s the one who had left my number with the hospital. As I called my other siblings, enthusiasm was lacking for the journey to Los Angeles to say goodbye. My mother, out of the country, and on her honeymoon with my step father, was unreachable. At 4:30, the second call came from the hospital, he was gone. I continued making phone calls.

Just after 8, I tried calling work, explaining the situation. My boss begged me, he desperately needed me, would I please work today ? Sigh, I went in.

At sunrise the next morning, my flight touched down in Los Angeles. My oldest sister Angie was at the airport to greet me. She explained that Margie was supposed to be in charge of the arrangements, and she had disappeared. I was 24 at the time, and number six of seven siblings, but because of Italian tradition, I was in charge. It was the first huge adult decision of my life. I told Angie that we would give Margie until noon to call. If she didn’t, we’d take over and do what we had to do. At 11:59, as Angie reached for the phone, it rang-it was Margie. Margie confirmed that she was handling things. With that weight off of our shoulders, my sisters and I went out and got drunk.

That last sentence sounds a bit harsh. Growing up in our family was a journey, not a destination. Neither one of our parents were ready for parenthood. They didn’t know the first thing about guidance, or example setting, yet, they continued making children. Angie had raised her younger sisters, and due to a break in things, I had raised my younger brother. This was the first time, as adults, we were together, and not under some kind of restriction. It was an opportunity to laugh and tell tale, and celebrate being together.

The viewing was early the next morning. As I walked in the funeral home, I had my first inkling that this day would be a disaster. As I saw my 300+ pound father in the box, I realized a couple of things. First, the box was cheap. It was made of particle board, with felt glued to the interior. The lid wasn’t even attached to the box. Secondly, I realized that my father was way too large for the box. At any rate, the lid would have to be nailed/screwed to the box, pressing down on dad’s bulbous abdomen.

After the viewing, we went outside and sat in a car. After we had been there nearly forty five minutes, Margie asked why it was taking so long to bring out the coffin. I pointed out the size difference with him and the box. Margie burst into tears, the rest of us either sighed, or tried not to snicker. Finally, they brought out the box, and we were on our way to the church.

When we got to the church, a problem presented itself. The front of the church had 36 steps going up into the church. I was the only male there (besides the funeral home guys-my brother was on military assignment overseas). I pleaded with the funeral home guys, who politely pointed out that it wasn’t part of their job to attempt the herculean task we were about to attempt. Finally, they gave in. and we started. Even with the box on a carriage with wheels:

Ka-thunk, ka thunk, ka thunk, all the way up the steps, to the church door.

As we reached the church door, two situations presented itself. First, the Priest was chewing out the Deacon, telling him that a ramp up the steps was supposed to be already completed. The Deacon replied that the lumber existed and the project workers had just arrived. As we held our service inside, we could hear hammers and nails doing their thing. That was the first situation, the second situation was the two mystery women in the church.

Actually, I knew one of the women, her name was Angela. I had met Angela on a blind date. We had been paired up by friends. On our date, we discovered that we were brother and sister. It seems that about the time I was conceived, my parents were having trouble. My father had strayed, and Angela was the result of that. Angela had been raised by other parents, but she had come to Los Angeles after her parents had died in a car crash. Margie was the only other one who knew of Angela’s existence. My other sisters were in no mood to meet a new sister.

Anyway, the Priest provided a great service. I know that he had never met my father, and God Bless men of the cloth for being so very full of grace.

After the service, several important things happened. First, Angela came to me and told me that she was now engaged. She would be starting a new life and bringing other siblings in was just too much. She said her final goodbye and left. The second thing that happened, was that we would take the other mystery woman to lunch. She was nice enough to come, we should be nice enough to buy her lunch. The third thing was that we had to bring the box out.

I thought, the new ramp in front of the church should make things easier, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The three of us were trying to take the box down the ramp, None of us, evidently, had tried something like this before. Perhaps, there should have been a manual describing how to try this. About the fourth or fifth step, gravity took over.

The box, unaccompanied, rocketed down the ramp. Luckily, the hearse was there to keep the box from rocketing into traffic. Also, luckily, the side door to the hearse was open. The box shot into the interior and did only minimal damage to the 1966 Cadillac. Predictably, Margie burst into tears. The rest of risked vascular damage from holding back laughter.

After that fiasco, we went to a Denny’s. We picked a large semi circular booth. We placed the mystery woman in the center, bracketed by myself and Angie. The rest of my sisters squeezed in. During drinks, the woman brought out a prescription bottle. Angie, a Nurse Practitioner, noticed that the bottle contained a powerful antibiotic and she asked her why she was taking it.

“I have syphilis” came the reply.

We all instinctively jumped. It turned out the woman had been a street walker, but dad was trying to help her get her act together. She had been staying at his place of recent. None of us were prepared to dwell deeper into the story. We tried telling her a bit about ourselves, but social interaction was a demon she was dealing with.

After that lunch, I saw most of my sisters off at the airport. The next Day, Margie and I were the only ones present for his burial. Afterwards, we tried doing some clearing at his place. Still decades later though, those few days, and that fiasco, stick with us.

WOW!
Very nicely written. You took me on the journey, and I was rivited. Good job.

You had me fearful the box would break, and the ramp - whose idea was that?

I offer my condolences - not belatedly on the death of your father, but more belatedly that you did not have the kind of parents I had. From all I've read in your posts, you did a pretty good job bringing yourself up.

And this is a really good piece of writing.