Illustration by Drew Shannon
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After Dad died at 100 years of age, the funeral director looked very serious as she promised us that what had happened at my mother’s interment would not happen again. I looked her in the eye and said that was the best part of the whole funeral and our family will never forget it.
Mom died 14 years earlier. After her church service and reception, we drove out in a convoy to the country cemetery where my parents had their plots. This small cemetery is tucked into a pine forest and the grounds are covered with wildflowers. It is the same cemetery where my grandparents and my in-laws are buried. My husband and I bought our own plots there soon after we were married. (It was a great buy in 1977 at only $60 each. The value of the plots has appreciated more than anything else we have purchased, including equities and real estate.)
My mother’s casket was placed in an antique hearse for the 30 kilometre drive to the cemetery.
About three kilometres from the cemetery, the coach suddenly stopped and would not restart. The funeral directors who had accompanied us were embarrassed and upset. We were not left with many options. We could not take the casket and put it in another vehicle and we could not walk down the road with the pallbearers carrying the casket. Eventually, another funeral home was called to deliver one of their hearses so we could move the casket and then carry on to the cemetery. But it would take almost an hour for the new car to arrive.
It was a warm mid-June Saturday and there was a steady line of vehicles on this country road. My brother and I decided to drive to a country store that we knew was just up the road and purchased about 40 popsicles, in all different colours and flavours.
When we returned to our convoy now parked on the side of the road, everyone had left their parked vehicles and were standing beside them chatting. We began handing out the popsicles, much appreciated in the warm weather and everyone dressed formally in black.
We offered popsicles to the funeral directors but they were worried that we were upset about what had happened. We told them that my mother was always positive, especially when met with challenging issues, and we were following her lead. After a little bit of persuading, even the funeral directors started to eat the popsicles and relax.
It was quite a scene: a funeral procession of about a dozen vehicles on the side of the road with people standing beside their cars licking brightly coloured popsicles and waving at passersby. Some drivers nearly went off the road it was so unexpected, especially when the casket was transferred to the new car.
We did eventually arrive at the cemetery and all went well. The old hearse had stopped because it ran out of gas – the gas gauge no longer worked.
While planning my Dad’s funeral the funeral director promised that every vehicle would be completely filled with fuel. And so when we had no problems in arriving at the cemetery, the funeral directors breathed a massive sigh of relief.
It is our family custom to lower caskets down into the ground after the committal and then shovel dirt upon the casket. When the time came, the funeral director took out a large crank and lowered the casket six feet into the ground. But then the crank flew off and landed at the bottom of the grave on top of the casket.
The funeral director could not believe that something completely out of the ordinary had happened again!
Without missing a beat, our eldest son had a solution. He said that he often lowers his son by the ankles over the neighbour’s fence to pick up lost balls. In a matter of seconds, our 9-year-old grandson was lowered head first into the grave. We unexpectedly laughed as we watched him disappear into the freshly dug grave. He retrieved the crank and was lifted out by his ankles. It all happened so quickly. If Dad was watching, he would have laughed the loudest.
I often go to the cemetery to water the flowers that I plant every year or light ice candles in the winter and I give thanks for my parents. I am thankful for the mirth that we were blessed with at both of their funerals. They were farewells that I know my wonderful parents would have appreciated.
Deborah Kraft lives in Thunder Bay, Ont.