Paternal grandmother, 1966. She’d been traveling by train to come visit us when she suddenly up and dropped dead from a heart attack somewhere in Arizona. We had to drive all the way from Texas to California for it, because my father swore off flying after his navigator brother died in a plane crash two or three years before. I have to admit it felt more like a vacation for me, because I barely remembered the lady and so really did not feel the sense of grief that all of my sobbing cousins at the funeral felt. They all lived in California, and so she had been a more real, tangible grandmother to them. Plus I got to cut school for it.
Daughter of a neighbor. I was about 4 or 5 and the girl was older, I’d have to ask my mom what age she was, but I do remember playing with her when she was alive. She was hit by a car. I wasn’t old enough to know what was going on. The funeral was probably in a small town church, but in my very young mind and body, it felt like it was a cathedral. I still remember what she looked like in the casket. I didn’t really know what dead meant, I don’t think, but it was scary to see.
My grandmother on my father’s side, when I was 21. She had been living with our family for many years. I was away at college at the time. She was walking to the supermarket when she was killed by a hit-and-run driver while crossing the street. It was so sudden and unexpected – she was perfectly healthy.
I went to my first (and so far only) funeral when I was in my late 20s. It was for a coworker’s mother who passed away.
I’ve never gone to any funerals in my family. All of my relatives are dispersed all over the world. For almost all of them, I’ve only ever met them at most a few times in my life. Due to the logistics involved, I was never expected to show up in the funeral of relatives who passed away.
The first one I can remember is my grandmother’s. I was 7, and I was an altar boy at the time, so I served at her funeral mass.
My paternal grandmother was my first funeral. My maternal grandparents died before her, but I did not go to theirs. My mom’s mom died when I was quite young, but my mom’s dad died less than a year before my dad’s mom. I was 15. My dad’s dad died in '04, so all my grandparents are dead. His was the only other funeral I’ve been to. I was a pallbearer for him.
The first one that I remember was a great-uncle’s funeral when I was six.
We made the trip from Indiana to east Tennessee to take my grandmother (his sister) there. It was a home funeral, with the body laid out in the front room and folks taking turns sitting up with it at night. They took him to a small family cemetery to be buried.
I don’t remember much about the actual service, but I do remember the trip and meeting family members that I didn’t know previously.
My paternal grandmother, right after I turned 7. We went up a few days before the service to make arrangements at the funeral home and they asked us if we wanted to see the body. My dad and grandfather said no, but being 7 years old I was morbidly curious about what a corpse looked like and asked if I could. Of course my dad couldn’t let me go see a dead body alone for the first time so he had to come along.
It only occurred to me many years later that he might have initially refused for emotional reasons and having to go see his dead mother due to my selfish curiosity might have been very distressing to him (the funeral itself was closed casket). He didn’t show it at the time, but I wasn’t really paying attention and I’ve always wondered. I really wish now that I hadn’t asked. It wasn’t really real to me at the time and my 7-year-old brain just thought of it as something cool and weird to look at. Makes me shudder now.
My paternal grandfather died when I was 11. My mom was pregnant with my youngest sister. The two most vivid memories are of my grandmother crying (I guess it struck me because she and my grandfather were never outwardly affectionate or emotional) and, for some time afterwards, I had a recurring dream about my grandfather in the casket.
I was 18 and it was a family friend who had a rather painful battle with cancer and died at 39. My mother started crying and I remember my psychiatrist being there too.
A couple years later I attended memorial services for two UNM students who had been murdered (in unrelated incidents.)
My parents don’t believe in letting kids go to funerals, so when I was 5 and my grandfather died, I wasn’t allowed to go to his funeral. I wasn’t all that close to him, so I didn’t mind. The fist funeral I actually attended was my uncle’s when I was 28. He died of prostate cancer, after a hard life (prison, various addictions, etc.) I wasn’t close to him either, for various reasons, but felt I should go anyway to support my mother and grandmother. I remember going up to the casket and seeing his overly-made-up face (courtesy of the funeral home makeup artist) and thinking how he would not have agreed to it if he was alive. Not sure why they did that to him, when he was cremated afterward anyway.
No, I don’t remember, at least not beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m 99% sure it was for a great-uncle, and I was about 13 years old, but of the actual specifics I have almost no recollection.
The first I remember was my grandfather’s funeral when I was fourteen. I had known him well, but the emotional impact hadn’t hit yet. I was interested to see the dead body, and touched his wrist. It was cold and hard, of course.
My brother and I sat with our step-brother and sister. They had not known him, and the four of us “cut up” just as we would have at any ordinary church service. Laughed the whole time.
I woke up in the middle of that night griefstricken and sobbed for hours.
My Great-GrandMother - a true Matriarch - when I was about 7. An old-fashioned Irish wake. ::shudder::
I remember my Great-Uncle explaining to me that they carry the body out feet first so that the dead can not beckon to anyone. And I remember a fight with the Funeral Home Director who didn’t want anyone sitting up with the corpse overnight in his place of business. He caved when they started talking about taking her back home. One Great-Aunt was sobbing that “She’d rather spend her last night at home anyway.”
I also remember feeling ashamed that I wanted to ride in the limousine.