I am now officially a funeral crasher. A friend of mine attends (crashes) about one a week and invites me to come along about once a month. I always turn him down and he always tries to convince me that it isn’t as bad as I might think. He has tried to explain that culturally, in his social circles, it’s just accepted that some people show up that the mourning family may not know and that they are almost appreciative of such a turnout. It’s much like being a professional mourner compensated in food and booze.
Now I have been guilty of crashing -- quite frankly I’m good at it, enjoy the challenge and have fostered some lifelong friendships from these outings. All of my crashing ambitions came to an end the night a friend (amateur) and I crashed a Yellow Book convention at a local 4 star hotel. Everything was going great until, while dancing with what I estimate was 572 pound woman he, as reported later, “felt sorry for her and decided to give her a little attention” with a slap to her bottom. Torches were lit and I remember running out – literally running all the way to the car.
I understand that as a person approaches seventy, it is not unusual to read the obituaries to plan the next week’s outings. One of my favorite family stories is my great-grandmother referring to a funeral as, “it just wasn’t as good as I thought it would be.” But I don’t think a forty year old should be looking for a funeral. Well I was wrong. I have never felt more loved or intoxicated than I did last Thursday.
It was late afternoon or really more like early evening when we joined the processional at the funeral home and followed a large caravan of attendees to the cemetery. There were at least three limousines directly behind the hearse; I don’t mean the 6-door funeral type, but the much stretched, rock and roll "I’m going to the prom" type. We arrived at the graveside and stood around the seated family as the minister told us the Biblical story of the Ten Bridesmaids. It would take three single-spaced pages to convey how the Ten Bridesmaids connected to this man’s life, but let me just say we all cried like babies.
Now I have been guilty of crashing -- quite frankly I’m good at it, enjoy the challenge and have fostered some lifelong friendships from these outings. All of my crashing ambitions came to an end the night a friend (amateur) and I crashed a Yellow Book convention at a local 4 star hotel. Everything was going great until, while dancing with what I estimate was 572 pound woman he, as reported later, “felt sorry for her and decided to give her a little attention” with a slap to her bottom. Torches were lit and I remember running out – literally running all the way to the car.
I understand that as a person approaches seventy, it is not unusual to read the obituaries to plan the next week’s outings. One of my favorite family stories is my great-grandmother referring to a funeral as, “it just wasn’t as good as I thought it would be.” But I don’t think a forty year old should be looking for a funeral. Well I was wrong. I have never felt more loved or intoxicated than I did last Thursday.
It was late afternoon or really more like early evening when we joined the processional at the funeral home and followed a large caravan of attendees to the cemetery. There were at least three limousines directly behind the hearse; I don’t mean the 6-door funeral type, but the much stretched, rock and roll "I’m going to the prom" type. We arrived at the graveside and stood around the seated family as the minister told us the Biblical story of the Ten Bridesmaids. It would take three single-spaced pages to convey how the Ten Bridesmaids connected to this man’s life, but let me just say we all cried like babies.
After the preacher spoke he motioned to the family. We all lined up to greet them and a woman sang “I’ll be seeing you in all the old familiar places”. Once again, tears welled up in my eyes and I feared I might just boohoo in front of all these strangers. One elderly woman in the line hugged me and told me she loved me and without hesitation or forethought I told her I loved her too.
When we got to the banquet hall across town, it was like walking into the biggest pot luck dinner I have ever seen, compete with a DJ playing oldie’s music and an additional table best described as a BYOB free-for-all complete with red solo cups and a big cooler of ice. This was my first introduction to a magical elixir called Hennessey. Things got fuzzier after that.
This was definitely a party. There was dancing and laughing. There was no talk of death, no crying and, surprisingly enough, no questions about who I was, who my friend was or why we were there. It was just like I was part of the family. And all the dynamics and dysfunctions that go with it. I was made fun of by Uncle Pete, had something wiped off my face by Auntie Laurel, a cute distant cousin flirted with me, two of the great-grand children covertly tossed olives at me, and Sammy tried to save my soul.
I finally got to meet the elderly woman that had hugged me at the graveside service. It was Great-Auntie Cecile. She was the sister of the deceased. When the next slow song came along, I asked her to dance. There, on the dance floor with one arm out and a smile on both our faces, we danced to the song “A Whiter Shade of Pale”. Embracing eighty-something-year-old Auntie Cecile, I realized that I hadn’t crashed their funeral -- they had purposefully collided with my life. Somewhere, between Ten Bridesmaids and Sixteen Vestal Virgins, I experienced the intoxication of being human.
© Brian Webber 2009
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