The last word

I’m speaking at a funeral tomorrow. The family said the deceased would’ve wanted me to. Funerals are for the living, and I’m happy to do it for them.

They asked me if I had done this before. Hard to cover this many decades without it. But, this did evoke memories of the first time.

Almost as soon as I hit the first age to end in “teen,” I was enrolled in DeMolay. The essence of the organization is to teach values to adolescent males and maybe keep them off the streets and out of trouble. The latter had the most appeal to my parents.

There was a good deal of ritual involved, which meant memorizing long passages and extensive public speaking. No problem. But, it did make me the go-to guy for the adult advisers.

So, it came as no surprise when one summer evening Mr. Rutter called and asked if I could memorize another ritual. Sure, which one? The funeral talk.

That rocked me. Who died?

I didn’t recognize the name. He had signed up before me, attended his initiation and never set foot in the hall again. But, his parents requested this for reasons known only to them.

He had been working under his car and it slipped the jack. That’s all she wrote.

“Gee, I don’t know.”

“C’mon, you won’t be alone. I’ll have two other guys there. You just have to speak. It’ll mean a lot to his parents.”

“Okay. When is it?”

“Tomorrow at 11:00.”

“You gotta be kidding.” He wasn’t.

The text was a little over three book pages. The greater problem, in my mind, was wearing my only suit (wool) and a starched shirt. Not a lot of air conditioning back then. I’d have preferred a medieval torture device.

I showed up, as did Tim and Steve, my wingmen. The funeral director gave us an idea of what, when and where. Where was a problem. It was an open casket and we were to stand right behind it, facing the attendees. That was totally unanticipated. We were ushered to the first row of folding chairs.

The program started. I was barely aware as I ran through the lines in my head. Tim had to elbow me when we were called upon.

I assumed my station in the middle, flanked by the boys. The rim of the coffin was chest high and it was difficult to maintain eye contact with the audience.

It was a little rough at first, but I hit my stride. Thought I was home free until Tim started hiccupping. Then, his hand flew up to his mouth. Uh oh.

The bright side was that he managed to turn his head before showing us what he had for breakfast. Otherwise, I’m guessing a considerable delay before moving to the cemetery. There seemed to be little to say after that. “Amen.”

I’ve spoken at services since then without incident. And, I’ve learned to ask questions. So I know that tomorrow, I will be speaking from the altar.