Not many places where it's safe for me to rant about this, so here I am. Please excuse and forgive my rant in advance.
We're getting ready for my Dad's funeral friday. Visitation is thursday.
It's a small midwestern town. I hated living there. Leaving for military service was the most freeing experience of my young life. THe place is a dismal small minded town that time forgot. On my many, many visits to my parents over the years, I've bypassed dealing with any people other than my parents, and have been more than happy to do so. My memories growing up here are of bullies, hypocrites, bigots, racists and violent homophobes, overbearing small minded assholes who have no problems imposing their will on others. A favorite book, growing up, was Spoon River Anthology, a depressing compliation from a similar, nearby place. My possibly inaccurate memory is that people there were happy to die, in order to get out of town, or generally lived depressing, meaningless lives:
"
"The Hill"
Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in a jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one?—
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of a broken pride, in the search for heart’s desire;
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kincaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?—
All, all are sleeping on the hill.
They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying—
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.
Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary’s Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time at Springfield.
Since there are others involved, Im going with the flow to avoid looking bad. I haven't worn a suit in 20 years. Now I have to buy a suit that I may never wear again. What a waste - people are struggling to get by, and I have to buy senseless expensive clothing to avoid appearing disrespectful. A last minute airline ticket and motel costs aren't enough to show respect, I have to shell out for a suit.
I don't beleive in the whole pall bearer thing. It's a manipulative tradition designed to demonstrate reverence for the dead. Now I'll be a pall bearer along with a bunch of Masons I've probably never met, and a neighbor who was a friend to my dad. "It's expected". I'll look bad to them if I don't. In a hospital, they have gurneys for carrying patients, and they're not in steel and wood coffins that strain the back. My back is not so good.
Then there's visitation. Visitation for what? A closed multi-thousand dollar coffin. He was so emaciated before he died, even while alive he was looking like an Egyptian mummy. This is not an exaggeration. What are they going to do, show his mummy? Pile on make-up? I asked for a closed casket, but I don't know yet if that will happen. This is incredibly grotesque, macabre.
He was a Mason, so apparently they'll have a ceremony for him as well. I've never been too sure what Masons do, some sort of pseudoreligious mumbo jumbo. My great aunt used to claim that Masons and Knights of Columbus were sort of warring mobs, alternating killing one another. I don't know.
I already put up with the hospice chaplain telling me about going over scripture with my Dad. Then there will be the funeral. I will not get into any discussions, I just want minimal intrusion into my personal grief then to get out of there.
I've been saying a very, very, long and painful goodby in the most meaningful way possible, while he was still alive. I experienced the loss vividly with every visit. These people are into the ceremony and drama, the social conformity, busybodies and overbearing religionists. I just want to get it over with. Distant relatives who I haven't seen in years, wanting to pay hundreds for flowers for the casket - to be used once then discarded. If they don't, then they'll look bad because other people will have flowers there. I suggested giving to the local library, where he was a board member for many years, and were he spent an evening each week browsing through the books. But social pressures demand the fucking flowers.
I will not fake prayer. It's a form of mental rape, forcing me to pretend to believe something I think is evil. I will not bow my head when they pray. I will not argue religion. I will not be forced to practice meaningless ritual, beyond the pall bearer thing.
Or will I.
OK, just a rant. I loved my Dad, none of this has anything to do with that. Nothing to be done but go through the motions and avoid interacting with those people as much as possible, remember that it will all soon be over. Then get back on the plane and get 2,000 miles between me and those people again. The best view of the place was always in the rear view mirror.
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Comment by sacha on August 18, 2010 at 11:06am
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