She was buried today. Age 98. Catholic ceremony, viewing, mass, and interment. Followed by a Jersey diner dinner in a private room. And now they’re drinking. Who knows when my Irish wife will get home?
Some lessons. You can’t go to a funeral if all you have is a light gray suit you can’t fit into anymore. So I didn’t. You probably shouldn’t go to funerals of people you met only half a dozen times or so, even if you liked each other more than anyone else ever did. (This would be an arbitrary RFL rule…) If you live long enough, make all the arrangements ahead of time. Aunt Ruth did. And everyone’s enjoying the day because she did.
Did I mention that I liked her? I did. When you get to be 98 there are people who hold grudges. But I thought she was terrific. Like a large block of driftwood. Weathered, immovable, no, immanent. They placed her in a chair at parties, and she squinted at all the guests, appraising, evaluating, seeing. All I ever did was be polite. She sparkled just a little when I visited. I offered her hors d’oeuvres and she politely declined.
That’s it. I liked her. She liked me. Maybe I should have attended her funeral. But I don’t like funerals. Never did.
There are rumors, unconfirmed, that not everybody liked her. That she could be difficult, rigid, impossible. None of my business. I remember the twinkle in her eye. How I will think of her:
You got it. The Miss Marple of the suburban family set.
Rest in peace, old gal.
Formal funerals are funny things, and your tribute to her here is more fitting for you, I think. So much of funeral services are about the remaining living and how they’re processing it all. I’ve only been to a few; folks in my ken generally do the other thing, Memorial Services, which are equal parts church worship service, testimonies about a life well lived, and party with lots of tears and laughs.