I was at a funeral about a month ago for my former boss’ wife.
It was the first time I was at the graveside portion, and it was cut short for incoming weather. No sooner than the funeral director interrupted the preacher’s comments, there was a loud clap of thunder. The crowd scattered…
The bad:
This is not really about the funeral as such, but about afterwards when family, relatives, friends and also not so few students of my uncle’s (I understand he was a popular teacher) were sitting together in my aunt’s home for a bite and a talk. In my opinion such gatherings are very good because everyone feels that now the sad part is over and we can begin to look forwards again. At about the point when people’s spirits had risen to more or less normal levels the priest (who had known my uncle since he was a child and had also baptised him) held a speech. It was not that bad from a religious point of view, but it was extremely emotional. You could see how people got sadder and sadder, some started crying, and the priest was totally oblivious of the impact he had on us - to him it was an ordinary day at the office - and just went on and on.
The good:
This could be about my father’s funeral, with the difference that she had been in the congregation several years and they knew each other well.
When our mother died a year ago my brother and I asked if it was possible that the same priest, now retired, could conduct that funeral as well. We were told that she was not allowed to charge anything (my guess is that her successors didn’t want to be outranked in popularity by her), but of course she could take care of it and it was a really nice service once again.
We buried my great uncle Howard at Arlington. This was doubly fitting because he had not only served in Korea and Vietnam, but because he had been one of The Old Guard (3rd US Amry Infantry Regiment) and had spent many years burying soldiers in that very place. In fact, he was being buried by the very same company in which he had served. This mattered a great deal to these men. They were burying one of their own. The ceremony was *perfectly *executed, which would have pleased him. I’ve regretted ever since that I did not ask him more about his duties.
My dad’s folks died when I was young but I have interesting stories of my mom’s parents’ funeral. Grandad died when I was in Canada, so I missed a colorful time. Like how much interest my male white trash cousins were showing in my sister. My mom almost certainly has half siblings running around. Maybe a lot of them. Grandad got around A LOT. So when mom and aunt Judy saw a wreath from “Mary-Lee Hoist” they set out to see who this unknown woman was and determine the nature of her previously unknown relationship to granddad. They spent a long time looking everyone over to see who they were and then asking friends and relations if they knew Mary-Lee Hoist. When they got to uncle Ronnie he started laughing as he pointed out that it was from his buddies with whom he worked as a hoist operator at the Mary-Lee coal mine.
At grandmas funeral things were slightly ugly. Grandma had been a master manipulator of my mom all her life. Specifically, she would make onerous demands of my mom and get her to do them by talking about how “Judy would do it because she loves me.” So when mom and Judy were up there at the coffin, Judy was putting on a show of grief to cement her position as the Good, Loving Daughter while mom just quietly paid her respects. It was embarrassingly theatrical and quite obvious from the way she turned it on and off like the flick of a switch. Keep in mind that my mom is the one sending money to both Grandma and Judy for 40 odd years while Judy leeched and mooched to support her own ultimately fatal prescription drug habit as well as her sons’ various addictions. But mom got to stand quietly over Judy’s coffin not too many months ago. So the last word if not the last laugh.
When my great grandmother died her cat, who must have been nearing 18 or 19 years old at that point, curled up next to her and passed away a few minutes later. Both she and her cat were cremated and we got my great grandma’s ashes back in a grey plastic box. The cat’s ashes came back in a beautiful gold box with her name engraved on the front of it.
After her memorial my cousin leaned over to me and whispered, “When I die make sure to take me to the vet!”
Was this man her actual father?
Kevbabes Mom died. So we we at the funeral in a distant city. Kev-niece was a HS senior, and there was a college in that city on the short list, so they scheduled an interview after the funeral and reception. Which ran late. Very late. The family had all come by limo, so there was nobody to give her a ride to the interview. So the plan became to have the limo driver drop Kev-niece and Kev-SIL at campus, take the rest of the clan to dead MIL’s house, and send someone to retrieve them.
Well nobody was from there, and nobody had a campus map. They knew only that they needed to go to PatronName Hall, room nnn. So we roll up next to a student walking, I roll down the window and ask “Pardon me, have you any Grey Poupon?” Yeah, inappropriate, but the clan needed the laugh, and honestly, how many chances in a lifetime to you get a chance to throw out that line?
Last Fall we attended the funeral for my wife’s favorite uncle. He was a WW2 veteran, and got the full-blown 21 gun salute with folded flag. Those parts of the military ceremony were executed with precision and respect, and I’m sure Chuck would have been proud.
But the officer who then gave the little generic eulogy was disgraceful. He read it off a card in a rushed, flat monotone devoid of inflection or thoughtfulness. He sounded like someone speaking a language they didn’t understand, uttering sounds instead of words. He’d apparently done the speech hundreds of times before, and probably didn’t realize how jaded and bored he’d become.
AND me mispronounced Chuck’s last name. Inexcusable.
Fortunately, Chuck’s son-in-law’s minister had been invited to also say a few words, and a proper eulogy was delivered, with sadness, humor, and feeling. And respect.
.
My grandpa recently passed and the funeral mostly set my teeth on edge. Grandpa was a sweet and kind man, and though his religious and political views were pretty extreme right, he generally didn’t make too much of an issue of it and certainly was not in your face about old time religion. The sermon, however, was nothing but a description of heaven and where Grandpa was right now, but what Grandpa was thinking and feeling in great detail when he saw Jesus and all the different features of Heaven (because the pastor apparently knows everything down to the minutest detail) but that he was also anguishing over those among us who secretly did not have faith in Jesus and weren’t born again, followed by fire and brimstone yadda yadda. The pastor repeatedly exhorted that those unfaithful among the group were to fess up and get right with God, because Grandpa was demanding it of us, et cetera, if we didn’t we were crushing him and so on, didn’t we want him to enjoy his time in Heaven knowing we were saved. It was like a 20 minute high pressure timeshare-style sales pitch for Jesus.
I pretty much saw red for the rest of the service (as the resident unbeliever) for so blatantly attempting to manipulate us, but I didn’t say anything. Turns out a few people brought it up after and were similarly mad, mostly for putting a lot of words in Grandpa’s mouth.
Yeah we waked my dad in our house and it was pretty fucking crazy. Dozens, maybe in the hundreds at one point of people milling about, drinking gallons of tea, trays and trays of sandwiches, and booze of every sort. We laid my dad out in the backroom and during one of the late night vigils my uncle was playing with my sister’s dog, throwing the ball for him, the ball bounced and landed up in the coffin beside my dad. It provided much needed comic relief.
The uncomfortable:
I was at my friend Lisa’s mother’s viewing. No one was there yet and we were milling around aimless in the hall. The smary funeral director slid up to the group and said "Sister Mary Agnes has just offered to say another whatever- Catholic- nuns -say- for your mother. Lisa, never the most tactful human being on the planet, brayed “Who the fuck is Sister Mary Agnes?” where upon the dumpy drab little woman standing behind the funeral director stepped forward and said “I am, dear.” Just another reason to bring back the habit.
The really uncomfortable:
When my mother died, my father elected not to have a service. Instead he wanted to scatter her ashes over the property from the Cessna . He was riding next to the pilot,I was in the back seat.
Now we all know what happens when you throw something out of a car window, right?
There’s a good chance it will blow back in.
Which is exactly what happened.
Mom ended up all over the backseat and under my contact lenses.
When we landed, I had tears streaming down my face.
My husband ran over to comfort me and asked what I needed.
He was a little surprised when I answered “The vacuum cleaner please.”
My grandmother’s coffin split as it was lowered into the ground and her body rolled out. Her nephew (a great guy) was looking on and said “She couldn’t resist looking out to see what all the commotion was about”.
We have a fun family. 
The Awkward, because it doesn’t really reach the level of Bad: My father’s Aunt (my great aunt?) was quite old when she died, and her given name was already old-fashioned when it was bestowed upon her - Lucretia or something like that. We all knew her by her nickname, which was the only name she used as an adult. She hated her given name.
The priest who did the funeral hadn’t known her well (if at all). Throughout the service, he referred to Lucretia (or whatever it was). She wasn’t in a position to care any more, of course, but the rest of her family didn’t appreciate it at all.
Nope. My mom married him seven years after our father died. Us kids were aged 12, 16, and 17 at the time. (Mom later admitted that she had remarried because she thought her children needed a father figure. Turns out, she was wrong…)
The good: My husband died somewhat unexpectedly 9 months ago at the age of 42. His death devastated me, but at least the funeral was very good. We had him dressed casually, the music (mix of appropriate country and rock) was perfect, and no one would have ever guessed that the minister had never met him. People stood up and said such great things about him, plus they had a nice mix of stories- some funny, some sweet and touching. I really felt surrounded by love for him as well as for me and the kids.
The sweet: My grandpa died 3 months shy of 100. He was very heavily involved with the Boy Scouts for around 70 years. His funeral was attended my men anywhere from their 20’s to probably some in their late 80’s or so. The majority of them wore at least parts of their scout uniforms to honor him. It was pretty cool.
The weird:
Last winter my ex-father-in-law died. He hadn’t been my father-in-law for over 16 years, but I went to the funeral because we had remained friendly and mostly to support my kids (their grandpa). Everyone was not going to go to the cemetery after the service (Michigan winter and all) but my son was going since he was a pall bearer. He was 23 at the time. Well, his uncles, who he rarely sees (probably 2 or 3 times in the last 16 years) come up to him right after the service and ask him, “do you smoke weed YET?”. He was like, “uh, no…”. The uncles were happy to hear this so that one of their wives, who was pregnant, could ride in the “no weed car” to the cemetery.
Background for this; Small country town. While my dad went off to university, my uncle stayed on & took over the family farm. Uncle’s wife had an affair that everyone except my uncle knew about. When my grandmother found out she told my uncle. For whatever reason uncle & aunt stayed together but she hated my grandmother from that time on for interfering. :rolleyes:
When granddad died (about 20 years ago now) he was buried in the family plot in the local cemetery. Around five years later my oldest cousin & his girlfriend were killed in a car crash and he was due to be buried in the family area of the same cemetery.
After the church ceremony we all went to the grave site and that’s when my aunt realised that the layout of the plots would mean my cousin would be buried next to my grandmother when she eventually died (two years ago as it happens – tough old girl).
Well the shit hit the fan, my aunt started causing a huge scene, insisting that no way would her son be buried next to his grandmother etc etc, (remember, this was in front of the entire family including that very same grandmother). It was obvious to everyone but her how much she was upsetting her own husband and her two other kids but she just kept on ranting and being the drama queen.
Until my dad, who is the politest man you would ever meet but by this stage had had a gutful, grabbed her arm, took her a few steps from the graveside and said (not very quietly): “This is not the time you stupid bitch, bury your son with some dignity or fuck off and let us do it.”
Stunned silence, broken only by a few of us trying not to laugh. The priest picked things up and everything proceeded smoothly. Aunt didn’t show up at the family gathering afterwards but quite a few people thanked my dad, including my two other cousins who knew how much he would have loved being buried next to his grandparents.
The good:
My dad was a huge fan of our local minor-league hockey team. When he passed away my mom was worrying herself sick over what he should be buried in. I said, “Why not his hockey jersey?” Mom thought it was a great idea, and we just ran with the hockey theme. Hockey songs for the music, I have never heard “Zamboni” at a funeral before or since. We even did the flowers in the team’s colors. Everyone thought it was perfect.
The bad:
My ex-husband’s ex-uncle was killed in a car accident. He was an uncle by marriage, and he was no longer married to my ex’s aunt, but he was the father of my ex’s two favorite cousins, so we went to the funeral. The minister went on and on and on about how much “Dan” loved his two little daughters. Problem was, Dan had four daughters, the two favorite cousins were his two older, nearly grown daughters. The minister didn’t even mention them once during the service, despite the fact that they were sitting right there next to the two little sisters.
My friend L’s mom passed away and the family got a minister to do the eulogy. Unfortunately, over the years the minister got a bit shaky–mentally. He made mistakes when referring to family members and then started going on about how the people in the space shuttle (can’t remember the name, but everyone on it died) were not going to heaven if they hadn’t been saved. This, of course, was not relevant to this funeral.
The last funeral I went to was for a friend of my parents. The priest had only just arrived at the parish the day before so he had never met Jim, the dead guy. He picked up a booklet that had a picture of Jim on the front and said, “I saw this picture of Jim at the golf course and I thought, ‘Never play golf with an Irishman who wears a hat like that. He’ll cheat every time.’”
These are both from my Dads funeral back in April.
The bad - I only asked to participate in two parts of the service at the church. I wanted to speak and I wanted to play his favorite hymn on the piano during congregational singing. (It Is Well With My Soul). The pastor refused to let me play because I’m both gay and not Christian. He may be their pastor, but I’ll never speak to him again.
The amusing - after the service, they took the casket out to the hearse and we stayed to talk and greet people. I commented that it was so typical. Church was over, dad was out in the car and we were the last to leave because mom was talking to people.
I was also just reminded - when my uncle died, his own son, who is/was a drug addict, stole the ceremonial oil meant for the cremation to sell for drug money. :eek: :mad: 