I’ve been volunteered to give a talk at the library in the borough where I work, about death and burials in the locality - this is what passes for entertainment round here (North London, if anyone was wondering). I’ve got the facts and bread-and-butter stuff, but I don’t have a “funny story” memory, so no fun bits to start or end with.
So if anyone’s got any good stories - preferably fit for public display - I will be unbelievably grateful
I don’t know if this story would count…it could. Here goes.
It was in October of 1989 and my grandfather died. I was seven years old at the time and in my POV the whole thing was diasterous. First of all, I got in heaps of trouble when my cousins and I started chasing each other around the casket during the viewing. Secondly, I kept having scary thoughts of my grandfather’s corpse coming to life. I guess that comes from the fact that I grew up with my parents reading Stephen King.
The funeral was fine. Then there’s the burial. I got a lot of slack from an old lady for stepping on someone elses gravestone. After the buriel was the reception, I guess you would call it. Where we gathered in a church to celebrate the life of my grandfather and have lunch. I went outside to the church’s swingset. Right behind the swingset, just a little few feet from it, was the parking lot and there were cars. My cousin was swinging too. I saw my father outside and I leapt off the swing, running directly behind the swings and getting knocked by my cousin’s swing and hitting a parked car. I got a black eye. I had already had a black eye from an earlier encounter (not sure what it was, must have either gotten into a fight or fallen down) and now I had two black eyes.
Then it was time to go back to grandmother’s house (grandfather’s wife/widow now). One problem. We were locked out. My other cousin (there was me and my cousin who had knocked me down, we were seven; cousin 2 who locked us out was six; cousin 3, cousin 2’s brother, was two or three, and the baby, cousin 3, was one; I was the oldest and the only girl amongst a bunch of little boys) had locked us out. Great. We stood outside of the farm house, trying to figure out what to do. I was thinking we should bust out a window, like the people in the movies do. But no, we sent in cousin 1 through the window to unlock the door. They were going to send me, but I was afraid to.
That’s the end of the most horrible funeral I have ever been to. Aftermath of it was when I had to go to church with my grandmother and all the church ladies made a big deal out of my two black eyes.
I don’t know if this story is humerous enough, but I know we laugh about it in our family.
My Aunt Ellen died a few months ago. I’m not comfortable in churches anyway, so I could hardly keep from laughing when the minister delivered his sermon. Think about the minister from The Simpsons. And it seemed apparent that he hadn’t actually known Aunt Ellen. His eulogy was very generic. He had some taped hymns that he would play, and he sat down while the mourners were singing along. Just sort of kicked back, y’know? Later, we were outside and the pallbearers came out with the coffin. By eldest aunt walked by and said under her breath, “Please don’t drop it!”
I thought the best one was when the funeral home failed to completely erase the tape for the somber background music to be played while the casket was open. Unfortunately, the first song on the tape started:
If you think I’m sexy
And you want my body
Come on sugar, let me know
(by Rod Stewart)
When I last went to a funeral I was a pallbearer.
The undertaker told the six of us to turn in the grey gloves we were given when we set the casket down.
Someone (a real whiner) sniffed that he* presumed * they would be cleaned before the next burial. The undertaker said “of course not! We always use new gloves, and they are itemized in our fees.”
The scold then asked why he should give them back.
The undertaker retorted. “That would be a most unseemly ‘souvenir’ to remember the deceased by.”
The rest of us simply wanted to get on with it.
However, when we turned in the gloves, I had to ask the aide who collected them what he would do with them.
“Oh, they are cleaned, of course, before the next service, sir, be certain of that!”
I worked with a woman whose husband is a funeral director. She came in very happy one morning and said, “Guess what, everybody? Chuck [her husband] got a promotion!”
Without missing a beat I replied, “Really? How many people does he have under him?”
How often can a person use that joke in real life?
Not exactly a funeral story, but humorous nevertheless . . .
Our friend Jeanie died a few years ago of breast cancer. Her family had been very supportive throughout her illness, and she died peacefully at her sister’s home, with all of her family gathered around, singing her favorite songs . . . about as lovely a way to die as one might hope for. Anyway, as she lay there after she had passed, the family discussed what needed to be done next, and someone mentioned calling for a hearse. Jeanie’s brother’s wife, who was from another country, misheard the word and thought they said “horse.” At the funeral, the brother told this story and everyone laughed, as they had that night, when picturing the poor sister-in-law’s image of Jeanie draped over the saddle.
Jeanie would have laughed too. The story was very much in keeping with the mood of the services as an upbeat remembrance and celebration of Jeanie’s life.
What with these and and the others off wring’s thread, I might just junk the stuff about who’s buried where and give the old dears 45 mins of anecdotes instead - they’re only there for the free tea and biccies anyway.