You know your day is going to be odd when you’re the model for a dead man’s outfit.
Customs and Traditions
The South (and I’m generalizing here) has some peculiar customs when it comes to funerals, and well death in general. From the moment of passing – that’s another one we say “passing,” as in when someone dies you usually hear: “well yes honey he’s passed on,” – until after the service, it’s nothing but a whirlwind of family, food, and figuring out who gets the fine china.
Recently I discovered that Southerners are the only ones who, when driving down the road, will respectfully stop their vehicles for a funeral procession. Some of us even get out of the car and tip a hat to the family, an action that I find incredibly honorable. Honestly I thought everyone did this, but no, it’s just a southern thing – also incredibly illegal apparently. You would think the Alabama DMV would put something like this in the drivers manual.
The Passing
In the pass year or so I’ve lost a few grandparents; it’s been odd they seem to be dropping like flies. Although I do have an unusually high number of grandparents than your standard person – that’s what happens when folks get divorced. Also I guess I’m getting to that age where honestly it’s about time. Needless to say I’ve been to my fair share of funerals.
I think my first was at the tender age of seven, I was probably dragged to a few more younger than that, but have no recollection of it. My great-great Aunt Ruby had “passed on,” and I was highly upset – mainly because she was awesome and I loved everything about her including the huge house on Lake Martin. It was the first and last time I cried at a funeral.
I’ll Cry If I Want To
Sometimes I get a lot of flack about not crying at funerals. I’ve been called cold hearted, soulless, sometimes psychopathic and in the same breath strong, a shoulder to cry on and level headed. The reason I don’t cry simply stems from another tradition, which is possibly an old family tradition: we have to touch the body. Weird right?
I distinctly remember my mother telling me to “go on up and touch Aunt Ruby.” Scared to death I remember walking up to the casket and standing on my tip-toes to peer in.
To me she just looked asleep. So I reached in, and with my index finger touched her hand. She was cold and hard, and there was absolutely no life in her. That’s when I realized that whatever was in that casket was merely a shell.
Her life force, soul, or whatever you want to call it, left along time ago. In so there was nothing I could do about it. As they say and I was taught early on, “there’s no reason to cry over spilled milk” so I stopped crying at funerals.
Smilin’ Jack
That being said my Papa Jack recently passed away a few weeks ago and I was asked to speak on behalf of the family. Basically I was the only one who was going to be able to “keep it together,” while on the podium.
Papa Jack and I had a few things in common. First off we were both proud Auburn Alumni (although he was API), we both thought ourselves as someone who could write well, and most recently apparent we were the same size – physically.
Clothes Make the Man
Our family is what most would call, umm short. Although I would say average and personally think that most Americans are freakishly tall given that back in the day people where a lot smaller. Ever seen the military outfits in museums – they look like kids clothes. I’m not blaming chicken hormones – but I am.
I digress.
Prior to the funeral, my aunt, mother and myself were preparing for the services. Mainly we were digging through the closets to find a suit to bury Papa in. Obviously upset, tired and not imaginative, my aunt stated that she only wished she could she the chosen suit on someone to make sure it would fit. That’s when all eyes started peering at me.
A few minutes later I found myself standing in the den clad in an outfit that would in a few hours be on a dead man. Weird, yes. Odd, oh yes. A little creepy, indeed. Surreal, yep that’s it. Who knew that one day I would be a model for the deceased, not quite a resume builder but strange things like this always tend to happen to me.
Not only was I modeling the eternal suit, but was mildly getting tailored in the process. Cuffs checked, labels press, with tears and whispers of “yes that will do, I think that looks nice.” All I kept doing was pulling old tissues and Halls wrappers out of his pockets.
I made a mental note to clean out my suit pockets of all trash and debris. The last thing I wanted was for my nephew to find some change and an old pack of cigarettes when I’m gone. I’m assuming this tradition of dead man modeling will continue.
Unfortunately the pants didn’t match, my color sensitive mother noted that the blues were a slightly different hue. Personally I said no pants, my logic was he’d be more comfortable. For a split second everyone thought about it, then realized comfort was probably not high on his list. Papa was a highly religious man, so it was quickly decided they would hate for him to head to the pearly gates in just a suit top and undies.
Although, spending an eternity in a suit sounds like hell to me.
Hell, ten minutes in that suit was bad enough.