Here is a chapter from the book Undertakings of an Undertaker. Yes, things like
this actually happen when you own a funeral home, it was a memorable day indeed.
Our funeral home was located at the corner
of Church St. and Pleasant Avenue, both very quiet streets in this very small
village tucked away in the foothills of the Southern Tier. On an average day, you could stand on the
front porch and watch the small town folks going about their daily routines: a
youngster riding the bike down the sidewalk, hurrying to the school playground
just a block and a half to the north, an elderly lady walking down the same
sidewalk on her way to pick up her mail on Main Street, one block to the west
and an easy two minutes away. This truly was small town America.
The funeral I was planning for mid-
morning was to be quite small, probably no more than thirty people or so. The
woman who had passed was very elderly, with few family survivors left. She had
outlived most of her friends and co-workers.
She was a former school teacher.
We were not going to proceed to the cemetery after the service. She was to be buried twenty miles away in a
family plot with her husband who had passed away over thirty years ago. So being very at ease this day, I went to my
daily duties of sweeping off the sidewalk and picking up the occasional piece
of trash, which was quite rare to find on our street. It was going to be a
repeat of another peaceful day, or so I thought.
Twenty minutes before service time, the
small family arrived. I seated them in
the chapel near the casket and had some very light piano music playing in the
background. The deceased had enjoyed the piano herself, the family said, often
sitting down at her old upright and playing for an hour or two nightly before
retiring. We soon had what I had estimated: just under thirty mourners in the
chapel as we awaited the arrival of the Methodist minister, who was just a half
block from the funeral home. He would often arrive just moments before service
time, scooting in at the last minute, knowing that I would have the speakers
stand and microphone in place, anticipating his arrival. True to form, he arrived just three minutes before
service time and handing me his slightly worn overcoat as he came through the
front door.
“We all set?” he asked.
I nodded in the affirmative and
replied, “I’ll turn the music down. Your mic is on, and you
can get started when you’re ready.”
The minister meandered up the aisle, bent
over and remarked quickly to the next of kin before setting his notes on the
podium. I was always stationed at the front door so I could receive anyone
arriving late. From my vantage point, I
could also look over the backs of those in attendance and see the minister as
he performed his duties. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a village truck
stopping at the corner of our intersecting streets. I didn’t think it odd, as they were out and about all day
around the village doing their daily maintaining of streets and sidewalks. I
gave their arrival little more thought as the minister started his brief
eulogy. As I set this scene, I must tell you that our chapel is very close, I
mean within one foot of the sidewalk on Pleasant Avenue, so the casket is
within five to six feet of the actual roadway. The minister had gotten to a
very quiet part of his presentation and had asked those in attendance to bow
their heads in prayer.
He went on to say, “In this quiet moment
of this most peaceful day, we take this pause to remember the life of Helen.”
Before he could utter the next sentence,
the room started shaking from the reverberation of a jackhammer which was now
pounding the pavement less than ten feet from where the speaker’s podium stood. There were four pieces of flowers
spread around the casket; their flowers and supporting greenery were vibrating
wildly. The drapery behind the casket was also responding, and not favorably,
from the concussion that was emanating from the street. The minister’s microphone was picking up the jackhammer’s report and broadcasting it into the two rooms
where speakers were connected. He stopped suddenly, looked up, and looked at me
with this “what do I do now” look on his face. I raised one hand for him to
stop. He smiled and nodded to the family
as I raced out the front door, down the four steps and across the front lawn,
all in one brisk leap that would have made the Olympics if I had been timed.
The jackhammer operator saw me coming and eased off the machine, lifted his eye
protection and uttered, “What?”
After a brief explanation that we had a
service in progress, I told him to take his co-worker downtown for a coffee
break, my treat, and give us twenty minutes to complete our work. He
apologized, said he would be back in a minute and they retreated in the village
truck as I had asked.
The service continued without further
interruption, well almost. As we pulled out of the driveway a couple of hours
later, we had to take a right onto the street as opposed to the usual left, as
they had removed part of the pavement to work on a water line. I’m sure Helen didn’t mind; it was an even more memorable day.
On the way out of the chapel, one of the
mourners whispered to me, “Stan, next time maybe I better bring ear
protection.” He laughed gingerly as he exited the funeral home, which is certainly
better than crying.
