Dying To Get To A Funeral

Like it or not, we all have grandparents!

Ben Luke was my mother’s father. The first time I met him, Grandpa Ben could not walk or talk due to a stroke, so I never even heard his voice. All I ever knew of him was that he chewed tobacco and drooled a lot, grunted when he needed something, and sat in an old rocking chair, staring out the window or watching television.

I couldn’t understand it and it frightened me, so I avoided him. Was that rude?

He died in early March 1965, and on the day of his funeral the temperature close to freezing. The funeral was only twenty miles away, but we had to cross the Buckhorn, a 3600 foot higher elevation, to get there, which meant we’d all be standing in the cemetery with a dripping nose and freezing toes.

Regardless, Mom said the entire cortège would attend the graveside ritual. So, like it or not, I had to polish my mukluks and suck it up!

******

Mom, then in her early 50’s, was a loving soul with a habit of off getting ready for any event…five minutes after she was supposed to be there. Her boss referred to her as Dagwood for her habit of always dashing into work three minutes late, and being a dutiful son, I followed her example to a tee!

Grandpa Ben’s funeral was treated with the same sense of urgency, and we both began dressing at the time we were supposed to be ready and standing at the door when our ride arrived. Consequently, as I sat on the sofa watching television, I heard the honking of a horn in the snowy distance.

“Mom, they’re here!” I shouted.

******

The pants are at least two inches short, and even with my 70 pound body I had to wiggle into them like a girl into her tight jeans.

Talk about camel toe! I had camel nuts! That HURT!  I had to suck in my stomach in so far that I looked like malnourished orphan smuggling peanuts in his pants, and when I tried to sit to put on my socks, the pants wouldn’t bend!

In need of a white shirt, the only one available belonged to my much older and much larger brother. Besides wrapping twice around my scrawny frame, it had a size 14 neck and  shirt tails that reached my knees.

“What the hell?”

Looking at myself in Mom’s mirror I thought, ‘how bout we call it a Muumu, and I put a belt around the waste and wear a leotard under! No? Yes? Hell yeah! I could do a gentle jeté into the funeral parlor and fouetté through the room!’

Somehow I manage to tuck the massive shirt tails into my already extremely tight waistband, adding  a huge rear paunch to my already ridiculous silhouette. Of course, I could no longer snap the waist and had to pull a belt tightly around and pretend it was fastened.

The shirt, wadded together in back, put a bundle at my ass that looked like I was smuggling a football into the funeral, and the Shirt sleeves were nearly as long as my jacket sleeves so that  when I put on the jacket, the sleeves bunched up toward the shoulders, giving me oversized, deformed biceps at the top off my spindly arms.

 

“I’m calling child welfare,” I shouted. Which drew only silence.

 

Sadly, I will be the only spastic, deformed, transgender orphan at the funeral. Seriously, that clothing catastrophe would be perfect for a modern-day Go Fund Me page, and the dust epaulets on the shoulders added a certain ‘glow’ to the ensemble that, despite mom’s best efforts, left a lasting impression! A genuinely — long lasting impression.

(Seriously, the Salvation Army would throw this suit away!)

******

(My fantasy: “French cuffs, folded back, clasped by gold cufflinks with shiny gemstones,” that debonaire, James Bond style en vogue appearance…was never to be!)

******

On top of all this, I needed something to wear on my feet other than my four year old pair Keds sneakers, which given the overall appearance of what I was sporting, would likely be more apropos, but?

No sooner had the thought entered my mind that my personal valet and coiffeur swept into my room like a dark angel carrying a pair of black dress shoes.

“I’m not wearing this!” I said, looking down at my front. She ignored me.

“I got these from Flo, at work.” she said. “Her son’s not much bigger than you and he doesn’t wear them anymore, so you can keep them.”

“How old are these?” I yelped as she handed them to me.

The toes were curling upward and they looked like they were allergic to air!

This woman who could never judge distances, is now judging body sizes from memory! (Angels and ministers of grace defend us! — we were reading Shakespeare in school.) 

With bulging biceps, a deformed waist, peanuts in my pants, and a football in my ass; she hands me a pair of Charlie Chaplin’s shoes.

“About my size, really Mom? I can put both feet into one those!”

When I put them on and stood, I looked like a 70-pound, teenaged Quasimodo! (SANCTUARY…SANCTUARY!)

Inserting my stylish red socks into the shoes, I took a step and walked right back out of them. Mom handed a pair of very thick gym socks, I took off the red, put on the white, and pulled the red back over top of the white. Meanwhile, Mom stuffed some tissue into the toes of the shoes.

“Now,” she said, “You will have warm feet and the shoes will stay on…mostly…well…if you walk a certain way. Like this,”

She demonstrated a sort of sliding walk where her feet never lifted from the ground! A bit like Michael Jackson, only forward. (Oh, if only he’d been around back then! I would have entered the funeral parlor like PeeWee Herman doing the moonwalk!)

She eyeballed me closely looking for ANYTHING that could improve this! A moment later her face lit up with an idea:

“You going to be wearing a winter coat over it anyway,” she said, “So nobody’s going to see it,” Still slowly shaking her head side to side with her arms crossed in front of her, I could tell she was impressed.

“Then why do I have to wear it in the first place?”

“Just finish getting dressed, they will be here any minute.” She said, turning to the door.

******

“THEY BEEN HONKING THE HORN FOR THE LAST TWENTY MINUTES!” I yelled as she left the room.

From the pocket of the jacket I retrieved the pièce de résistance. A ‘Normy Schulman’s, fashionable, clip-on necktie.’ Purchased in Altoona, and probably made my Altoona orphans for someone like me! Or by someone just like me!

Fits “ages six to eight,” the tag read.

Clipped to the collar its length barely reached the second button of the shirt. But, the weight pulled the shirt collar forward leaving a two-inch gap between my eight inch neck and the twelve or fourteen inch collar, which made the necktie appear longer than it was. So that was something!

Being able to see only the front of myself in the mirror, despite it all, I thought I looked good.

Then…she entered the room again with a jar of  Vaseline!

Having not visited a barber since what I called my “Annual Great Depression,” which I had at the beginning of every school year…mom decided that my hair needed some managing.

“Mom! Really? Petroleum is what they make gasoline out of and you want it on my head? You’re gonna be sorry if I catch fire?”

“Well,” she replied, “If that happens, just pull your hood up quick and will smother it,”

Watching in the mirror as she applied the gooey muck, I transformed! I loved the new, cool looking, ‘slicked-back’ sci-fi hairdo. Spontaneous combustion aside, I thought it looked pretty awesome.

“Far out!” I said loudly.

She went to wash her hands.

******

Donning our winter coats, we rushed out the door toward the car. Well, she rushed and I shuffled forward like a robot incapable of bending my knees or elbows. (“Danger Will Robinson. Danger Will Robinson…”) I didn’t have the large bubble head and flashing lights, but I walked the part!

As we approached the car, the rear passenger door opened and what looked like a grizzly bear with human legs and wearing a hat, omfed its way off the seat with a lot of grunting and heavy breathing!

Gallantly, I stepped up to hold the door for the ladies, a strategy I had formulated for accessing the window seat. Aunt Grizzlybody, unfortunately, saw through my ruse, and obviously perturbed by the long wait, put a fat paw on the back of my neck and shoved me in ahead of her.

No greeting, nice to meet you, what’s your name, nice to see you, NOTHING. Just “GET YOUR ASS IN THE CAR!”

Sandwiched like a weenie in a bun between Mom and the yapping bear, I found myself unable to move. Honestly, she looked so large that I half expected her family and friends to come popping out of her coat; a Ringling Bros Clown Car.

OMG! Even if he was naked, Nanook of the North would have sweated his noogies off in here! It was SOOOOO frigging HOT!

We hadn’t yet begun moving when it hit me that, I am wearing and overstuffed winter parka, a suit jacket, a doubled-and-stuffed, football-in-the-ass cotton shirt, and two pairs of socks!

The screams echoed inside my baking skull! “Please help! I’m going to die here! I mean, I can’t even move!”

 “What the…??? Seriously, Is Satan driving this car?’ It’s 140° in here!” 

In no time, sweating like a cat in a dog kennel my greased head began to melt and I could feel it sizzle as it oozed downward, behind my ears, and down my neck. I felt the hood adhere to the grease on my hair with a gooey sucking sound that I felt certain would be permanent.

If it’s Not The Destination but The Journey That Matters! Then why are we’re just sitting here listening to the talking grizzly bear!? Especially when going TO VISIT A DEAD PERSON!

No longer was I simply mourning the loss of my grandfather, but I now include the loss of my manhood, or of what little I had. I swear on my morning toast that, had it not been for that funeral, I would, to this very day, have a voice deeper than James Earl Jones. Instead, I’m a tenor with possible COPD in my future from gags of perfume and seared lung tissue!

******

When we finally started moving, I saw that the driver was none other than Auntie Mary Walruspuss. The last time I saw her she must have had her tusks because she look much different. Probably because like Grizzly, she was, uh, much larger … than I recall! I could not take my eyes off her floppy jowls and turkey neck, jiggling like Jello when she moved.

Oh good grief! With the movement of the car, there was a sudden rush much warmer air into the back! Angels and ministers of grace, defend us! My brain was shouting in agony. It suddenly felt 15° warmer when the trapped heat rolled to the back.

I should have stood in bed!

Aunt Grizzly finally took a breath allowing a new face to appear. One who finally acknowledged our presence. Twisting herself to look at us, she said,

“Oh, Emma, Is this your son? He’s such a handsome boy! I’m so sorry for the loss of your father and I can tell he’s grieving for his grandfather…that sad, painful expression on his face! We’re here for you dear,” she said, smiling at me.

Sad, and PAINFUL! You got that right! Torment! Torture! Testicles! I squirmed beneath the sweaty, greasy parka, numb from the waist down.

The road to Redhill was clear and dry; very safe for maneuvering, but Walruspuss was a careful driver. Strike that…she was a VERY CAREFUL driver.

Always five to ten mph under the speed limit, slows for green lights, just in case. Oh joy! At least ‘my body’ will arrive safely in no less than an hour and half.

The Grizzly had not stopped talking, likely because everyone stopped listening. So she decided to converse with me, directly! Holy COFFEE/SMOKE-BREATH, Batman! Her mouth could gag a maggot!

“Somebody, please open a window, or strangle me!”

As we finally broached Red Hill and rounded the Devil’s Elbow a fog instantly enveloped the car. My brain was hurting and jiggling like Aunti Walruspuss’s cheeks.

“At last,” I thought to myself, “It will be a clean death, afterall. We will crash, the windows will break, and I will thoroughly enjoy freezing to death.

**********

The farther we ascended, the thicker the fog became. The thicker the fog became, the thicker Auntie Walruspuss became . It wasn’t long before the two were unnervingly synchronized in thickness. She had no idea what she was doing.

The fog was blinding, leaving her to drive with her eyes wide shut! In fact, within the first quarter-mile past the Devil’s Elbow, all of the women were now helping to drive the car.

Of course, meek Auntie Spider Veins, a mild-tempered and quiet woman with ankles that looked like road maps even through her nylons, gripped the dashboard, leaving out short screams of fear.

Her biblical-looking face betrayed the fact she was praying with all her heart. Face whiter than the fog, her chin trembled like she was singing a Whitney Houston song.

Meanwhile, white-knuckled Auntie Walruspuss gripped the wheel, jerking it side to side following orders the best she could.

“Avast, me hearties! Hard to larboard!” someone would shout (possibly in something less nautical) and the wheel would jerk back and forth.

Trying her best to figure out which side of the road she was actually traveling on, Walruspuss would come withing inches of the guardrail on the other side of the road, and then within inches of the rock cliffs and ditches on her side.

Such good times!

Often mistaking the white line on the road’s edge to be the center line — the other’s yelps of fear as weeds and bushes, or the guardrail suddenly loomed in front of them, caused the Walrus to veer off at the last second, back onto the concrete pavement.

“NOTHING SHALL KEEP US FROM OUR QUEST!”

Mom, I should mention, was always very stoic. Having never driven a car herself, she had nothing to offer in the way of navigating our way into eternity. In fact, I half expected her to pull a Pall Mall from her purse and light up.

Sitting in silence with one hand on the door handle as if she was ready to jump, and the other a deathgrip on my skinny leg, I felt certain that, like me, she prayed for an instant death rather than a lengthy hospital stay and years of recuperation with insurmountable debt.

“Damn the torpedoes! Full speed ahead!”

******

Without warning, Auntie Grizzly-Bottom grabbed my coat and jerked me across her lap, throwing me like a rag doll against the passenger door.

Needing access to the center of the seat for a better view of our impending doom, she could now shout driving instructions directly into the ear of Walruspuss!

Auntie Spiderveins, smelling the evil pit of coffee and smoke, put her hand over her nose and mouth.

Walruspuss could not protect herself. Assuming Grizzly’s breath would render her unconscious, I began imagining my own funeral; a small piece of bone in a tiny box, or a puddle of Jim in a tiny vial on the dresser.

In the midst of my delirium, all of a sudden (as they say in the movies) ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE!

Headlights were come toward us out of the fog, and instead of moving into her lane, out of the way, Walruspuss froze — stopped dead in the road as if to ensure that the oncoming car could not miss.

Silence fell. Everyone waited for the end. Auntie Varicose covered her eyes; Grizzly wrapped her arm around my head and pulled me deep into her fur, Mom braced both arms against the front seat. As we held our breath, I heard a horn blare as a car passed us.

Her driving skills now piqued by panic: the jowls of Auntie Walruspuss jiggled and flapped as she overcorrected her driving error by flooring the gas pedal and jerking the wheel hard to starboard (the right).

Quicker than we could process it, the car crossed the highway — ONE LANE -TWO LANES — Thr…-Nope, NO MORE LANES — and over we went!

With the dreadful sound of scrunching metal, the car tipped over into the ditch and slid to an abrupt stop. The car settled and the flailing began! Arms and legs flew everywhere as the ladies struggled to bring themselves into some form of an upright position.

“At least now we ALL have wet underpants!” I muttered as my body was crushed against the passenger door.

There was an intersection near the top of the Buckhorn where 36 met Skyline drive. At the intersection was Smithmeyer’s Restaurant, and in front of the restaurant was a ditch, likely three or four feet deep. It was that ditch that Auntie W.P., parked her car.

The largest of the two women in the back was now sitting on my head. “Do grizzly bears smell like mothballs?” I wondered. “Or does she have mothballs in her panties?” “I have never sniffed a grizzly bear’s butt, but it couldn’t be much worse? Between my head and the snow and weeds was a thin sheet of window glass.

**********

No such thing as a seatbelt!

“Help Us, Obi Wan, You’re Our Only Hope” (If only those had not been pre-Star Wars years, we sure could have used The Force.) 

Those dining in the restaurant somehow witnessed the Walrus’ skillful parking maneuver, and in quick order, a few gentlemanly gentlemen came running to the rescue. Something that, from my vantage point, I was completely unaware of.

As the crushing weight of Auntie Grizzly-Bottom pinned me to the door where I could barely breathe; the cold window pressed against face and likely kept me from blacking out.

Out of somewhere, a rush of cold air flooded the car and the huge, furry, mothball smelling bottom began to move!

The force was strong with this one as whoever it was levitated the Grizzly off of my head. For several seconds, as I praised God, high-heeled feet trampled me while my grateful, burning lungs, sucked in the cool fresh air.

Hovering above me were huge cotton panties beneath a black umbrella that surround two fat, flailing legs. A visage burned indelibly into my psyche.

As the final vestige of ankles and shoes disappeared and all the ladies were extracted, both doors mercilessly slammed shut, trapping me inside. I’d gone suddenly from sweating profusely to shivering in a cold, dead car. Left to die alone!

Using as much of the force as I could muster, I got to my feet and reached for the door handle above when, with just a thought, untouched, it opened before my outstretched arm — Amazing!

Then, a head appeared over the edge. It wasn’t Obi Wan because, as I said, he hadn’t been invented yet. Instead, a bearded man with a munchkin like head stuffed into a plaid hat with furry ear flaps, reached in and grabbed my wrists.

“So, there you are!” said he. “Yer mother said she might’ve forgot somethin’. Nobody even seen ya layin’ down there!”

Like I was a spider-monkey or an umbrella stuck behind the seat, he lifted me with one hand. Standing me upright, looking me up and down he asked if anything was broken or injured.

(Not unless you’re referring to a damaged ego and wet underwear.)

Soaked with sweat and shivering in the foggy cold, he led me away, gripping my shoulder as if I might try to escape.

Once inside, Mom helped readjust my clothing, returning them to their least disgusting condition, where I once more resembled an orphan boy they found in the ditch next to the car!

Ordering coffee and cakes, we sat there for some time, waiting for a new ride to the funeral home. At last, a much roomier, cooler vehicle with fewer people, carried Mom and me the last few miles in relative comfort. We climbed in and I instantly fell asleep against her shoulder, like I’d just come inside after playing in the snow.

Grandpa Ben looked waxy and swollen, nearly unrecognizable. There were smudges and smears of cosmetics, and I think they even put lipstick on him.

Of course it was the first time I’d ever seen him clean-shaven without tobacco spit on his chin. Still, I was remorseless. I hadn’t know him, nor did I comprehend the loss.

Rather than mourning his passing, even at that age I rather reflected on what it must have been like for him to sit in that chair day after day all those years — just chewing tobacco, grunting for food, unable to walk or even wipe his own butt, and spitting tobacco-chew in a coffee can next to the chair. Yuck!

At the graveside, the morning fog was gone, but the cold remained. The snow began to accumulate on my Vaseline bouffant, and eventually droplets of melted snow dripped through and lit on my petroleum-insulated scalp.

A short time later, tiny wisps of steam began rising from my head into the chilly air, like vaporous spirits hovering over me.

Dressed as I was, like a deformed transvestite orphan who had a strange gaited walk and very large feet: people began to slowly move away, eyeing me nervously.

Presumably, all funerals are somber occasions, but with this one, I found myself rejoicing to be the one alive.

Thankfully, we have a limited number of grandparents, and if there were any more funerals after this one, I was determined that I was going to walk to them.

Finally, if you ever find yourself going to a funeral, and three fat old ladies come to take you there, do yourself a favor and call an Uber!