As a longtime Presbyterian minister, my father was a funeral expert of sorts. During his more than 35 years in the ministry he’d become well acquainted with death and with grieving survivors. He’d spent much of his professional time in hospitals, at funeral homes and services, and in houses that suddenly felt empty. Also, he’d had his own near-death experiences, having had a series of heart attacks.
Even so, his call to me at work was startling. He was phoning from home in northwest Washington, D.C., and asked if I could take off a couple of hours, go with him and my mother to a funeral home he’d selected and discuss plans for his funeral.
As a young man in a dark suit talked with my father, my mother and me at the funeral home, I was surprised to learn how many details my father had already thought about. He wanted the casket open before the service (“In case anyone wonders if I’m really in there”)–but he wanted it closed once the service began. I always knew that he liked carnations, but when he said he wanted a “blanket of red carnations” draped over his closed casket, I was startled. Who knew he had floral styling preferences?
The biggest surprise was that my father, the minister, didn’t want his funeral held in a church. He wanted it in the funeral home’s chapel: as an administrator for the Presbyterian churches in the region, he didn’t want to seem to play favorites by singling out a specific church for his funeral. Considerate man that he was, he also wanted to make sure that there would be plenty of parking spaces–the generous parking lot was one of the reasons he’d chosen this funeral home.
My parents had always had a warm relationship, and spent the afternoon in a remarkably unsomber mood. My mom got the funeral-home rep loosened up and smiling–and she entered into the day’s plan-ahead spirit, selecting her own funeral’s details. When my dad picked the hymns he wanted sung at his service, my mom picked one for her own: “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” As a geologist and a teacher, she liked its imagery.
Then the rep led us into what I think of as the Casket Room. My parents had always said that when the time came, just put ’em in plain pine boxes and bury ’em. No problem, right? Ha! It seems that pine boxes aren’t that common. Also, the rep explained, if a body is going to be transported to a distant cemetery (both my parents wanted to be taken to the same country cemetery in New York’s Hudson Valley, close to where my mom grew up), a simple box is considered a health risk.
So my father asked to see the least expensive casket instead. With a thoughtful expression, he reached inside it and gave the fabric lining a feel. “This feels chintzy–it’s scratchy,” he said. Fabric texture always had mattered to my dad, I realized. “What’s the next one up in price?” He reached into casket No. 2 and felt its lining. “That’s fine,” he said. “I’ll have the same,” said Mom.
Wandering around this strange display room, I became fascinated by the top-of-the-line casket. It was a work of art, carved of rosewood and lined with silk–all destined, of course, to be buried under dirt. My father and mother joined me, and together we stared at this masterpiece.
“Who buys this kind of casket?” I asked.
“People who are very wealthy,” our now-relaxed Casket Room guide responded. Then he added, “Or people who are feeling guilty. Buying this makes them feel less guilty. And I sell it to them.”
A year later my dad had his final heart attack. Over the next few days my mom, my sisters and I came to appreciate his thoughtful planning. Late on the night he died I called the funeral home we’d visited. I told them that my dad’s plan was on file, and the name of the hospital where they could pick up his body.
While the family was staggering around and generally trying to cope, the chapel was readied, the casket with the right lining (not, thank God, the chintzy, scratchy one) was prepared, a blanket of red carnations was ordered. My mom called my father’s successor, who flew back from vacation to give the eulogy. Finally, and right on schedule, cars full of mourners began to fill the generous-size parking lot.
Years later, as my mother disappeared into the silence of Alzheimer’s, we already knew what kind of funeral she wanted–the same one she’d planned the day my father planned his. In the country cemetery where my mother rejoined my father, family and friends gathered. It was windy. Thunderclouds scudded by overhead, and hawks swooped and circled. My mom’s brother (also a minister) conducted the service. And then we sang the hymn she’d chosen so long ago–“O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” We were doing exactly what we knew she wanted done.
Way to go, Mom and Dad. And thanks.
