If you are reading this, I am dead, not that this new state of affairs will have any discernible effect on our relations.
You will be surprised at the number of friends who will mourn my departure. The term “friends” refers to human beings who care for one another. Some of you may have heard of such people, although the concept will be new to Mike and, if he is still married to her, Linda. (I may be thinking of an earlier wife; all those second-string Farrah Fawcetts run together in my mind.)
My friends loved me dearly, and rightly so. However, this does not mean that my obsequies should be planned for their entertainment. The modern sentiment that “funerals are for the living” leads unfailingly to lamentable events that combine the solemnity of a middle-school talent show with the dignity of Open Mike Night at the corner bar.
My funeral is not for the living. It is for me. Here is my list of funeral instructions. I’ve made them simple enough for an idiot to understand; you should be able to figure it out if you all work together.
Venue
Services are to be held in a church, not on some beach, windswept plain or mountainside upon which I may have once briefly stood while enjoying the sunset. Any denomination will do, except Roman Catholic. The Catholics have been engaged in a whispering campaign about the state of my immortal soul since my last visit to one of their services, my baptism in 1948.
General Mood
There will be no “celebration of life.” It's a little too late.
You had ample opportunity to "celebrate my life" by allowing me to, just once, complete a full sentence before ripping the conversational topic from my throat and turning it back to your petty grievance of the day. I am easy to please. If Cousin Dick had returned my Toro Lawnmaster in the same shape as it was when he borrowed it, i.e., without jagged chips in the blades from mowing too close to his rock-strewn excuse for a driveway, I would have considered my life more than amply celebrated.
I implore you, in planning my funeral, to strive for the downbeat, the maudlin, the sense of utter despair tempered only by abject hopelessness. You'll know you have succeeded when the guests stagger from the church and collapse in the shrubbery, wailing and yanking out their hair in ragged clumps.
The presiding minister can help set the tone by keeping his eulogy free of light-hearted metaphor. Yes, I enjoyed golf, but I am not now on some Elysian fairway, chipping toward the heavenly green with a celestial nine-iron. To the contrary, I am cowering, cold and naked, at the foot of the judgement throne of God Almighty, condemned by my sins as I await His verdict with fear and trembling. I am far beyond the redemptive power of golf jokes.
Personal Remembrances
Mourners will plead for the opportunity to offer heartfelt reflections on the manifold ways I touched their lives. If a fifteen-minute time limit is observed, up to twelve speakers can be accommodated within a three-hour period. That seems about right.
Those who are not comfortable at public oratory often have difficulty making a strong finish. The inexperienced speaker is advised to employ the technique of “fading to the imagination.” After hitting two or three emotional peaks--a certain poignant event, a quirky habit of mine that meant so much--simply say, “So, I guess what I mean is, Frank was . . . Frank was . . .” Then freeze for a few seconds, grasp the lectern for support, hang your head and stumble away in tears, whispering, “Oh, God.” Your audience will fill in the blanks with evocative detail far more powerful than anything you could have planned.
Music
No guitars. No strumming, picking, plucking or twanging within a hundred yards of my corpse. This is a funeral, not a hootenanny.
Preparation of Remains
I’ll bend to popular demand and allow a visitation period before the funeral, although I’ve never understood why people enjoy looking at dead bodies. This is the exact situation for which the expression “There’s no there there” was created. When you see me lying on satin, surrounded by polished oak and brass handles, be assured: Elvis has left the building.
Note to mortician: the hair above my left ear is unruly and difficult to manage. If you place me in the coffin with my head to the mourners' left, that defect will face the rear, hinged side of the box and be less distracting to the viewer. Just a thought.
A Word of Warning
Those who ignore the last wishes of the deceased always do so with the best intentions, thinking
“Mom didn’t want a big service, but everyone in town will want to pay their respects.”or
"Sure, Dad hated folk music, but hey, it'll give little Jason a chance to perform.”This is how a life is honored? You spend your entire life sacrificing, slaving, working solely for the benefit of others, hoping only that, at the end, your transition to glory will be managed with quiet dignity, but as soon as the mortuary employees have pulled the sheet over your face and started rolling your remains out the kitchen door, a dozen of your blood relatives flop down on your living room couch, put their feet on the coffee table and toast your demise, spilling Bud Lite on your stamp collection and wiping it up with your Honorable Discharge papers, saying, “Let’s just dress the old fart in a ‘Hard Rock Cafe’ tee-shirt and Bermuda shorts, put him in that box the home theater came in, play "Light My Fire" on the boombox and plant him behind the garage.”
I am in a place of eternity. If you ignore my wishes, I will know. And by the time you arrive here, I will have spent plenty of time schmoozing with the Judge Eternal.
Copyright 2005 Frank Mullen III
Originally published by Suite101.com
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