Funeral Home

Glenn Funeral Home is the second-to-last stop on the Getting Mom’s Affairs in Order Tour. Mom has decided she wants to get her burial arrangements worked out. She says she wants to be cremated because she doesn’t like the idea of people filing by her casket and commenting about “what a good job they did on her.”

“Everybody will say, ‘Well, she looks good,’” Mom says from her wheelchair in the kitchen, waving her arthritic right hand around while her left holds a cherry Toaster Strudel aloft. Even though she has a napkin, she licks the icing off of her fingers. “I mean, what else are they gonna say?”

Mom had seen an ad for the Bio Urn on Facebook and liked the idea of having her ashes mixed with seeds, then planted to sprout a tree, but we couldn’t figure out where we could plant her. I had called the family cemetery and the guy said they couldn’t accommodate that request, so since Grandmom had already purchased Mom’s plot in the space next to hers at Memorial Gardens, we decided Mom should go the normal route. 

“My plot is right beside Mother’s,” Mom says, even though she knows I know all of the details. She sweeps her hand to indicate a row, “then Grandad is beside her, then Grandaddy Frank and Grandmother.” She gestures upward, “Then up the hill are quite a few…Granddaddy Frank’s brother and sister-in-law, their daughter. I think one of Grandmother’s sisters, my cousin, Larry is up there…” She sounds casual, like she is listing people who live in her neighborhood and this gives me some comfort. 

“Is everything else about the funeral the same?” I ask her. No one in our family has been cremated. “Except you’re just in an urn and not a casket?”

“I don’t know,” Mom says, shrugging and holding her sticky fingers in the air. “I guess we’ll find out.” 

Glenn’s Funeral Home, a newish plantation-style brick building, attempts to exude the aura of Southern graciousness. The formal atmosphere of the lobby seems forced, precious. The sweeping staircase, the gold patterned carpet, the fake antique settees. The hushed tones with which the receptionist greets us makes me want to misbehave. But I control myself and sit whispering with Mom and my sister Stacy while we wait for a funeral professional to assist us. Stacy didn’t think she would be able to get through this meeting but is holding herself together so far.

A nice man named David arrives and escorts us stiffly to a conference room. He is practiced but kind as he rolls Mom to the large table and takes a seat at the head. Stacy and I sit across from Mom and I notice how much smaller she’s gotten, sitting there scrunched in her wheelchair with her down jacket bunched up around her ears. Her oxygen tank puffs quietly and she appears removed as she adjusts the cannula in her nose. David pushes a dark green folder filled with brochures and forms over to us and tells the three of us what we can expect from this visit. He turns to Mom.

“Mrs. Kirkland, you look to be in fairly good health,” David says. “What has prompted you to make funeral arrangements at this time?”

“Well I almost died twice in the past two months,” Mom says. “I thought I’d better go ahead and get this settled.” She gives him the highlights from her hypoxic episode and her stroke and the complications that followed, ending with her last two hospital stays. He listens patiently before moving on to the collection of general information. Full name, birthdate, place of birth, children’s names, phone numbers. He pulls out the Family Planning Worksheet with a flourish and begins at the top, making notes of Mom’s answers in a column.

“Mrs. Kirkland, for the procession from the Funeral Home to the cemetery, we offer limousine transportation. There is a special container in the rear in which the urn is strapped, so even though the cost is four hundred dollars, I usually recommend this option. Otherwise, we would just….” here he chuckles and pantomimes holding a big urn like he would a girlfriend sitting beside him in the front seat, “take you in the Buick.”

Mom is unmoved. “I’ll just ride in the car,” she says.

Soon he escorts us into the showroom where we roll Mom around to the various glass cases and try to get her interested in the merchandise. 

“Do you like this guest book, Mom?” I ask, pointing to the golf-themed one.

“I don’t know, whatever you think.”

“Do you want flowers or a cross on your thank you cards?” Stacy asks.

“Doesn’t matter, whichever,” Mom says, seeming to melt into her wheelchair. 

“Which urn appeals to you, Mom?” we ask.

“I don’t care. I’ll be in heaven.”

Stacy and I decide for her then David leads us back to the conference room to review our third-party items — cemetery costs, flowers, clergy. 

“Mrs. Kirkland, do you attend church? Do you have a minister or have you anyone in mind to officiate your service?”

Mom says no, she really doesn’t go to church but mentions the name of the pastor who officiated Grandmom’s service twelve years ago. David jots down the name then excuses himself to fetch the financial expert to explain payment options.

“I wish we could think of somebody else to officiate,” I say. “I’m not sure about that guy who did Grandmom’s.”

“He’s not at Owensboro Christian anymore, is he?” Stacy asks Mom.

“No, I don’t think he is.”

“Yeah, because he got kicked out for having an affair with a parishioner.” Stacy tells me, smiling. 

“He’s at that little church across from the hospital now, isn’t he, Mom?”

“I don’t know, Stacy, maybe he is.”

“The same thing happened to Lee’s friend,” Stacy starts to laugh. “He had an affair with a woman who came to his church and he got sent out to Diamond Lakes.”

“Diamond Lakes?” I ask. “Where you fish?” And we are almost immediately hysterical, faces squinched up, squealing with laughter, trying to be quiet, knowing it’s futile.

“Diamond Lakes Baptist,” Stacy says with difficulty, “They have about fifteen people in church every Sunday.” I can barely understand her. We’re grabbing at tissues from the box between us while Mom looks at us quizzically, laughing at our laughter.

“They must wonder…” I squeeze out the words, holding tissues to my eyes, “why they got sent the shitty preacher.”

When Stacy can breathe, she says, “They’re all vacationers, they don’t know any better.”

Whenever Stacy starts, I am helpless, exactly like in church at Third Baptist when the old lady in the choir would make a hilarious self-righteous face while singing with abandon. Mom would reach over and pinch a tiny bit of skin on the soft underside of our arms to get us to stop, but once we started, our laughter took on a life of its own.

“We can’t pee in this funeral home,” I practically howl, laying my head down on my arms. Peeing our pants is a real risk when we get like this. Stacy turns her whole body away from me and sticks up her hand.

“Don’t say anything else!”

Fortunately, David is gone a long time. While we wait for the money guy, David tells us they like to gather some preliminary information for the obituary.

“What words would you use to describe your mother?”

“Oh no….” Mom says, sitting up a little and looking worried.

“Easy-going…” Stacy begins.

“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say. “We’re not going to describe how you are today. We’re not going to say you were tired and grumpy and your knees always hurt.”

We list her attributes — nice, caring, fun, funny, always up for a party, a good athlete, good tennis player and golfer, card player… 

Our last task is to pick a bible verse or poem for the funeral program, so David hands us three laminated pages of verses and leaves us to make our decision. Stacy begins crying the minute she reads the first one, the 23rd Psalm. Mom looks at her, seeming surprised and then joins in. I hand a couple of tissues to Mom. Their tears are what makes me cry. We read, crying quietly.

“Do you see one you like, Mom?” asks Stacy, trying to wipe her tears with the four balled-up tissues in her fist, too wet from the laughing fit to do much good. When I pull out a couple from the box and hand them to her, she says she doesn’t want to take more than her share. 

“The cost of the tissue is included, I assure you,” I say.

“I guess Afterglow,” Mom says, looking down at the laminated sheet. I read it and it does seem to suit Mom. 

I’d like the memory of me to be a happy one. 

I’d like to leave an afterglow of smiles when life is done. 

I’d like to leave an echo whispering softly down the ways, 

Of happy times and laughing times and bright and sunny days.

I’d like the tears of those who grieve, to dry before the sun;

Of happy memories that I leave when life is done.” 

I can see she’s just plain worn out.

Mom is presented with the total cost and she says she’s relieved to have the arrangements done and the check written so that Stacy and Heather and I don’t have to mess with it. As we leave, I find myself hoping that the last stop on the Getting Mom’s Affairs in Order Tour, the law offices of Mom’s attorney the next day, will be less nerve-racking. The appointment will be straight-forward, just a simple signing of the updated will, but I’m thinking the best course of action is to leave Stacy at home this time.