What If I Have
A Funeral And Nobody Comes?
by Gene Royer
October 14, 2003
Liberalism is the ideology of symbolism over substance, while
Conservatism resounds with reason and logic--often in combinations
that perplex the staunchest of hearts. With this in
mind, I recently sat down and began to contemplate my eventual
death and the funeral ceremony that invariably will follow.
My contemplation was not comfortable because the first reality
to hit me was that it was pure symbolism over substance. For
whatever reasons that families are willing to spend thousands--and
sometimes tens of thousands--of dollars for the deceased's
eternal send-off, the act itself is illogical in that the
dearly departed has already made his giant leap several days
prior.
Hearing this argument, experienced funeral directors will
solemnly counter: "Funerals are for the living, and not
for the dead". Of course, I agree--which further
labels it as symbolism over substance.
"There are only two kinds of people in the world,"
I've always said. "Those who live and those who
die. The dead ones, we call the dearly departed. And
the ones who live are survivors."
As "survivors" we need to perform the human
act of doing something nice for our "dearly departed".
That "something nice" often translates into
an expensive coffin, lots of flowers, many mourners, slow
walking, low singing, and someone to say complimentary things
over the body as it is put into its final disposition. We
do all this with great pomp even though we know that the subject
of our affection is not there to receive it and approve.
Symbolism over substance is what it is, and I'll have none
of it when I die.
What a silly thing to say, as I will have no say-so in the
matter beyond giving prior preferences. Of course, I
have created written instructions regarding my death and disposal,
which I hope my surviving wife will adhere to. But from
the hereafter there is no 20/20 hindsight. She will
do as she feels.
When my father-in-law died a few years ago, the family asked
me to deliver the eulogy, for which I felt honored. I
told the many who surrounded the burial plot that if they
came intending to say good-bye to the man, they could forget
it.
"You're too late," I said, as I placed my hand
on the flag-draped coffin. "He's been gone three days.
And the only thing remaining of him is this shell he
was confined to for seventy-five years and the memories of
him each of us harbor."
My words stunned those in attendance, but their sensibility
stopped the sobbing in the first two rows. His wife
looked at me, smiled and nodded her head. We buried
the shell; and at family gatherings, we sit around the table
and relate our memories of him.
A few weeks after his funeral, my mother-in-law took me aside
and gave me succinct direction regarding her passing: She
wants to be cremated as immediately as possible after death,
and she wants her "survivors" to have a small but
joyful gathering to celebrate her having gone to a better
place.
That's sensible. It's reasonable. It's conservatism.
She decries long faces and sad songs, and she has instructed
me--if I succeed her in death--to position myself as master
of ceremonies and direct the festivities. She was born
Catholic, and her people came from Poland, and she wants me
to tell Polish jokes.
I told her I know a few about the Pope, and she said that
would be all right.
I told her to put it in writing.
©
2003 Tocqevillian Magazine
