“If any of you cry at my funeral, I will never speak to you again.”
— Stan Laurel
I know, not exactly a cheery subject while you’re drinking your morning coffee, but it’s part of life for everyone. No exceptions.
What I find interesting is how we Southerners deal with this as compared to other Americans, especially Yankees and including those in Florida where I have been held captive for decades.
You say, “But isn’t Florida a Southern state?” Uh…not hardly, except for that skinny strip they call the Panhandle. Florida is nothing more than a human junk pile for Northerners, people who weren’t wanted in New Yawk or Chicago so they sent them there.
One big difference is the preference for what to do with your Earthly body when you’re done with it.
In the South, society gravitates toward the full ceremony, showing one last round of respect for their loved one. Visitation, church or funeral home service, carried by somber pall bearers to the cemetery for a last small ceremony. More often than not there’s an open casket at the start.
Note to wife: Don’t even think about it.
And at the last plot of ground you will own, you get a big granite marker so you can be easily “visited.” And you will occasionally have company bringing you flowers (whether you liked them in life or not).
Secular people, especially Yankees who dominate the North and places like Florida have pretty much dispensed with the ceremony: They run you through the cooker and post a meme or two on Facebook. I am in no way disparaging folks who don’t have the money for a full funeral. The well-off folk are usually the worst about not caring.
Side note: That being said, I will probably end up in a fancy jar since I don’t want the last of my money spent on UPS-ing all of me back home. BUT… they must plant my urn next to Grandma, my Dad and mother if they wish to avoid being haunted.
And go light on the flowers please.
Southerners respect the passing of even total strangers. In many places they still preserve the dignity of a funeral procession by pulling over to the side of the road or at least getting out of the way. They would never dream of popping onto the road breaking the line of the motorcade.
A friend of mine, Doc (originally from Alabama), works as a motorcycle escort for funeral processions down here in the Land of Heathens. He has been almost hit by cars trying to drive through the line, honking their horns ‘cause they’re late getting to Starbucks for their morning coffee.
And cemeteries are an institution in Mississippi and the South in general. They are to be kept up, usually by volunteers and church members.
My late and well-loved Uncle George was on the “cemetery committee” at the church he belonged to. When I was visiting a few years back, he asked me if I would make a sign for him to hang on their cemetery fence.
Apparently, to be buried there, your family would contact him and pay $25 to the church (only in Mississippi!), then pick a spot.
Certain people were slipping in after hours to avoid paying the fee. There’s one in every crowd. Of course, I made him a sign that told them not to do that. But in a polite Southern manner.
Years ago, I was at the small country church and cemetery outside of Eupora on Memorial Day. My parents occupy a double grave there. We were with my aunts and family, putting flowers out. (My Dad was not big on flowers, but he didn’t get a vote.)
My very, very beloved aunts Sara and Dorothy were with us. We lost Sara, who used to baby sit me, a couple of years ago. A hard loss I still haven’t recovered from.
I was asking them about possibly staking out a spot for myself when the time comes. Their eyes lit up.
Sara says, “That would be wonderful! Then we could come visit you any time we want to!”
Nodding our heads at this magnificent idea, reality hit us and Aunt Sara led us in howling laughter.
I sure do miss her.
Thom Caraccio ([email protected]) is a retired musician and retired motion picture scenic artist living in West Palm Beach, Florida who hails from Columbus. He graduated from S.D. Lee High in 1968 and still considers Columbus his real hometown.
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