Somewhere in the freight...

   As all of us find ourselves now confined in some way, shape, manner or form,
   I'm glad you stopped by here...my site is always open!

   You will find I think, some most interesting things posted here, stories from
    both books, other posts concerning Buddy Holly and his tragic flight,

    a visit to Rod Serlings' grave site in Interlaken and a whole bunch more...
    so grab your favorite drink, kick back and dig in... there's a lot here.

    And if you feel moved, share the site with others you know. My following
    has grown significantly in the last year or so with viewers in the UK,
    Canada and Australia....oh... the wonders of the world wide web.

 

Every once in awhile, those in funeral service experience situations that
are far from the norm. This was one of those situations I encountered many
many years ago. Fortunately it turned out well....but it could have been, well,
a most difficult week for all those involved.

We've all heard of lost bags at an airport....but lost human remains? Yes...
thank goodness it was just temporary...I do remember however it did take
at least half of one day for my blood pressure to return to a near normal
reading.

It is chapter number 9 from my first book Undertakings of an Undertaker
(2015)

Somewhere in the Freight

     The phone ringing in the middle of the night always meant someone had gone on, died, passed away, crossed over, sugared off. There were so many terms and descriptions for death. Young people would say "bit the dust". Older people were kinder and gentler, many liking the term “going on” or “slipping into the night.”  The language used really isn’t significant. Whatever the term used, it all ends up the same. For the person for whom the bell tolls, there will be no morning oatmeal.

     So it was 2:00 am and a hospital in Florida was telling me that Floyd so and so from our hometown had gone on to his last reward.  As I struggled to force my eyelids to respond, a family member was put on the phone and instructed me that they

wanted Floyd flown back to our town for just a local burial, no service, just a burial in the family plot next to Maude, his wife who had expired years before.  I managed to write the information down, expressed my condolences to the family and hung up the

old clunky black telephone, a phone that actually had a bell in it. When it rang, you'd swear the dust would emerge from the curtains; it was that loud. I attempted to put cotton in the bells years before but got a brief, but powerful shock when I tried to open the bottom of the phone, its corporate insignia AT&T glaring at me on the warning that said, “Do not try to make adjustments to this phone.”  No kidding. I think the shock I received must have at stopped my fingernails from growing for at least six months. 

     As I stumbled groggily to my desk downstairs in the funeral home, my mind started to formulate a plan to retrieve the gentleman from Florida and bring him back here as his family had requested.  I reviewed my funeral director yellow book, quickly discovering a funeral director in Florida near the hospital where Floyd had died.  Perfect.  Here's a guy who would retrieve Floyd and put him on an airliner to Rochester, the airport closest to me. I though more about it and decided to wait and call the funeral director at 7:00 am. There was no need of spoiling his night as well.  I closed the yellow book, killed the light, and went back to bed.  Unfortunately, my brain kept buzzing over the new death call, and a return to a restful sleep was not to be realized. 

    At 6:00 am, I was back at my desk dialing Florida and an undertaker who could assist me on that end.  An answering service told me I had reached some corporate funeral home. The corporate guys always had answering services. The mom and pop guys usually lived on premises, like my wife and I, and were usually the sober voices that answered the phone. 

   "Of course," said the director in Florida.  He would be very happy to claim Floyd, get the necessary paperwork and find an airliner going to Rochester within the next day or so.

    The plan was set.  There was an immediate family member locally who came in later that day, gave me the information I needed, selected a very humble pine casket and concrete grave liner, and paid in advance the amount I had estimated for all of the work, including the Florida undertaker and the airline fare.  Life was good.  Things always felt good when you had a plan in place and your family was pleased with their arrangements.

     Twenty-four hours later I pulled the vehicle out of the garage, gassed it up, and headed north to Rochester, about ninety miles from our chapel.  It would take me about an hour and forty five minutes to get to the airport.  Then, after a quick drive to the freight office, which was only about 100 yards from the passenger gates, Floyd would be mine for the drive home.

    In those days, the mid-1980's and before, there was little or no airport security. There was no TSA, few gates to show I.D's, etc.  You just showed up, stated your business, and you were in.  How innocent those days were.  Little did we know how drastically things would change someday and how difficult simple things would become.

   Arriving at the freight office after an uneventful trip, I skipped up the four steps into the office announcing my presence and my intentions.  The guy behind the counter was munching on a tuna sandwich between swigs of soft drink and drags on a cigarette which almost choked me as I pulled back from him.

   "Is flight 490 from Atlanta on time?" I queried. He looked at me half interested as he continued to devour the sandwich. "I have some remains on that flight coming to my funeral home from Florida."

   With that, he wheeled around, pushed a button and looked at his TV screen.  "It’s already in," he proclaimed, "It came in early, about 20 minutes ago."

    Fantastic!  It was rare that a flight arrived early.  This meant that I might even be home early. It was a nice day to drive, but wanting to get back out and beat the afternoon commuters made me smile.

    "Back your car up to dock number 2 and we'll go fetch your guy," the attendant said.       

I quickly signed the receipt for the air-tray, which would contain the body, and I flew down the steps to await his next move.

    My car was backed up, the rear door popped, and I stood in my blue shirt, tie and sport coat, awaiting the front loader- lift which should soon appear with my guy attached.

    Instead, the same fellow came to the loading dock and started to say something, but his words were drowned out as an incoming airliner whined loudly overhead on its final approach and casted a shadow as it neared the runway just behind us.

   "What’s that?"  I screamed, so I could be heard.  "I didn’t hear you."

   The attendant had a sheepish look on his face as he jumped down and stood eyeball to eyeball with me next to the rear bumper.

    "I can’t find your guy. I know he's here. I just can’t find him"

     My mind was now processing this information.  You can’t find my guy.   A dead man in a standard pine and cardboard box, the size of a casket with stickers all over it saying

"human remains", “handle with care”, airline logos, etc., and this guy is telling me he's misplaced him?  This isn’t your standard shipment of copy paper, carpet remnants, or plastic actions figures. This is a deceased human we're talking about. You just don’t

misplace human remains. 

   I had to cut the cold veil of silence by asking, "You didn’t give him to somebody by accident did you?"   

   He looked at me like I thought he was a moron.  I think the term “moron” went through both of our skulls at the same time.

  "We'll turn the place over. We'll find him. I know he's here," the attendant tried to reassure me.

    I sat on the bumper of the car as he re-entered the building.  Five minutes turned to ten, ten to fifteen. Finally, the tractor emerged with my guy’s air-tray on the front, the driver smiling gleefully. 

   "Some guy threw a tarp over the box out back. Sorry for the wait."

   We loaded Floyd, I headed the car south, and we returned to the chapel unscathed. The next day I buried Floyd with a simple grave side prayer, and we called it a day.

The ironic part of the story was that just at the end of the service, the family member told me how great it was that Floyd was now home and tucked away with his family.

They said he had had a very frightful time once as a kid when he was lost in the woods for a couple of days. Wow. Floyd had almost done it again.  Sleep well Floyd; you can’t get lost again.