Funerals

I had a happy childhood, but also it seemed that there was a lot of sadness too. First my mother's older brother Homer - known as "Snip" in the family - died. Then there was the death of my mother's youngest brother Tom, who was almost like a big brother to me since he lived with us off and on while I was growing up. Finally my grandmother - my mother's mother - died.

My mother, Jim - I have to call her that because it's the name I knew her by - reacted to each of these tragedies with hysteria, and with weeks, and months of deep depression. My mother was very emotional. She would scream, faint, and cry. She would run around the room frantically searching for comfort, and not finding any would run out the door and down the street crying and holding out her arms for succor from above. Every tragedy hurt her deeply and left a permanent mark on her soul.

My words are inadequate to convey the trauma of these occasions. My father tried to shield me from witnessing my mother in this agitated state by putting me under the care of relatives during her initial reactions. Possibly for this reason I sometimes felt more like a spectator than part of the family. It's not that I didn't feel pain, but the pain I felt was more from seeing my mother's suffering than from my own.

The funerals for my mother's family were all held in the little town of Pauls Valley, Oklahoma, the family home, and they were no help at all. They seemed contrived to display and to dramatize the family's suffering. There always seemed to be a big turnout, perhaps because everyone knew they were in for a good show. The family members were all ushered down front, where they could be seen by everyone, and where they were close to the casket, containing the deceased's remains, prominently displayed at the front of the church.

The minister's sermons were all works of art, describing the deceased, how they were taken in the prime of life - in the case of my uncles - or after many years of devotion to their family - in my grandmother's case - and how they would be missed by their loving family, with a nod toward the family, seated at the front of the congregation. It seemed to me that the minister would go on and on until he got one or more of the family to break down and cry, as if he used this as a sign to guage his success.

To cap off the procedings, the casket would be opened and the congregation would all file by for one last look at the deceased. It was here that there was the most potential for fireworks. I think my mother surprised everyone though. She had too much sense of propriety to make a scene in public.

I hated this part of the funerals even more than the eulogies. The bodies looked unnatural. They certainly didn't resemble in any way the life and vitality of anyone in my family. One of my cousins, Homer Dean, who hated those Pauls Valley funerals even more than me, told me about going to our grandmother's funeral. Now Homer loved Grandmother probably as much as any of us grandchildren, having spent every summer with her from the age of seven up through high school. Anyway, when it came time to go up and view her body, Homer stepped out of line and walked to the back of the church. Seeing this, Homer's younger brother Steve went over and asked Homer why he didn't go forward with the ohers.

Homer replied, "I'm not going up there. It's barbaric."

Then Steve said, "Well, if you're not going, neither am I."

Seeing his sons standing at the back of the church, my uncle Thurman walked over and said, "You two should walk by the casket. It's the proper thing to do."

Homer told his father, "Well, I'm not going."

And Steve chimed in, "I'm not going either."

At that Thurman just sighed, and the three of them stood there together until the end of the service.