The Funeral

My third funeral since September was just this last week. People I either didn’t know at all or barely had the time to get to know. This last one was for Fraser, Rob’s father-in-law and Farron and Jordan’s grandfather. It was held at the United Church in Beaverlodge, which is not far from Grande Prairie, and as close to mile zero of the Alaskan Highway as a person can be without being there. The minister was European. Don’t ask me from where. English is his fifth language and as such his accent was fairly hard to place – even for Rob who is generally good at this type of thing. He was not your average Christian minister, bearing in mind here that my experience with Christian means Catholic and when I think “minister”, I see “priest”. He didn’t believe in the idea of being saved. He operates on the principle that we were saved by Christ’s dying on the cross, and our access to heaven was assured by the Resurrection. I found that surprising and refreshing. Surprising because I spent too long living among the Protestants in central Iowa who had this curious habit of disbelief when it comes to this idea of having been saved already, and refreshing because my own Catholic upbringing is so heavily guilt laden and filled with recriminations and doubt of worth. I could almost see myself attending worship if this guy was the minister in charge and if I didn’t suspect that organized religion was organized in the first place for reasons other than promoting the ideas they claim to represent.

Rob was asked to give the eulogy by Shelley’s brother, Jason and Fraser’s nephew, Brian. He did a good job. He’s a Virgo after all and spent time writing and rewriting and running his ideas by me, Jordan, Jason and Cory (Shelley’s nephew) and taking suggestions and incorporating them into revisions he wrote. It was a longer eulogy than one might expect from someone who doesn’t do that sort of thing for a living. I could hear an old man behind me doing that heavy sigh thing that Katy does when she is bored but doesn’t want to risk voicing her opinion. It went on until the man finally muttered to someone nearby, “It’s forty minutes already!” Not Rob’s eulogy, the entire service up to that point. I was a bit annoyed and if my back hadn’t been gripped in a series of agonizing spasms that afternoon, I’d have turned square around and given him the teacher stare I normally reserved for the hell spawn. As if forty minutes was too long a time to give up to remember someone, which for some of them would be the last time they bothered to at all because so many funeral attendees have put the passing behind them almost as soon as they exit the venue in search of the post-funeral chow down.

The church was packed to the point of over-flow with seating set up in the basement for those who couldn’t be squeezed into the main church. Despite that the interment in the very wet, muddy cemetery outside of town was sparsely attended. Just immediate family and close friends while the rest of the mourners scurried ahead to the Rio Grande Hall to snap up the best parking and be first in line for the food. I find just about everything to do with wakes, funerals and funeral dinners – disturbing or disgusting. Peering at corpses who in no way look “natural” or “better than they had in years”. Socializing as though one was attending a family reunion. Eating. As I put it to my mother once during the last of our memorable arguments concerning my refusal to willingly attend funeral dinners – “Someone’s dead. So let’s eat?” I have never attended a single one of these functions since that time that has changed my opinion one iota. Despite this I allowed myself to be coerced into a visitation/wake for Will, my late husband. I spent the evening observing others as they chatted and gave vent to their grief but didn’t feel comforted or able to grieve myself. I gave comfort and was patted on the back for my efforts. And except for the wake and funeral of my 10-year-old cousin, I don’t think I have ever really attended an event where everyone was sad – visibly and demonstratively.

The dinner was held at one of the many community halls that dot the farming communities around Grande Prairie. Rio (Rye-o) Grande hall was a place that Rob could remember attending dances with Shelley. Between each dance couples would stroll around the hall hand in hand waiting for the next record to begin much like I remember doing at the roller skating rink when I was in junior high. Once as he and Shelley were strolling, the widowed mother of a classmate slipped her hand in his other and strolled with them. Shelley teased him about that for the rest of the night.

Family ended up parking on the side of the muddy road, as the parking lot was full and then making their way inside to find the line at the food tables snaking around the outer walls. To the family’s credit, we all cut the line and I filled a plate for Katy. Cheese strips, pickles and Timbits of which she ate the latter two. We didn’t stay long. Everyone was in a hurry to get back to the farm, which was less than two minutes away. People followed and rapidly filled the kitchen to overflowing and then the drinking began.

I have a lot to say about alcohol, given my personal history, but for now I will say that I don’t think much of the practice of funeral “after-parties”. Grief makes a poor mixer. Especially when last will and testament readings are involved.

Things finally began to settle a bit in terms of numbers about 9:30 that evening and by ten it was almost quiet enough for Katy to conk out in Jason’s old bedroom above the kitchen – though how she slept through the variable noise levels that followed with regularity until 7 the next morning, I don’t know because Rob and I didn’t.

I was exhausted enough by 10:30 that I managed to drop off but that was just until Rob woke me at 1:30AM in a cold rage and ready to pack up and head for home. I could see us getting about two hours of the six it takes to make the Fort and then sleeping on the side of the road for some super semi to plow into in the cold dark, so I talked him down until he could sleep. Then I was awake, listening to the inebriated mourners until closing in on four. Apparently, everyone was in bed by seven that morning and though we had planned to get an early start as Rob was going to help Jordan pick up her new car before the dealership closed, he decided that we should sleep in a bit and we did, not getting on the road proper until well after 10AM.

There is talk of a great gathering at the farm again on the May long weekend (Victoria Day) with a bonfire of all of the old out-buildings and yes, more drinking (I should note here that there is a considerable amount of wine left courtesy of Uncle Raymond that is now part of the legacy left for the children and grandchildren and since Ray’s still is intact and fully operational somewhere – there could be even more by May). We are doubtful for this gathering at this point, but things may be different then.

All in all, I am hoping we will have no more sad reasons to revisit Grande Prairie anytime soon.