Over the past seven years I watched helplessly as my mother’s bright and witty mind slowly unraveled. And then over a brief 5 day period this July, her physical self quickly unraveled and suddenly she was gone. Suddenly, I transitioned from a helpless bystander to “a woman of action,” (one of my mother’s favorite phrases). Along with my siblings and cousins I became engrossed in planning a kick-ass celebratory memorial service for this lovely and generous woman. The date had to be set, the services of the minister and church secured, selection of music, travel and housing plans for out of towners, hosting meals and organizing flowers. Given the menu of tasks, it is probably not too surprising that I frequently misspoke and referred to the funeral as “the wedding.” Nick pointed out that the major difference between the two was that with a wedding you typically have several months to plan. Of course the other difference was my visit to the funeral home. My mother was very skilled in finding humor, irony and irreverence in almost any situation and thus I am sure that she would have approved and enjoyed the following description.
Wenban funeral home has been the only funeral home in Lake Forest for decades. Mr. Wenban also owned the Buick dealership, and thus my uncle said that his motto was, “Bodies, bones and Buicks.” As I approached the building, I realized that I had been in the building some 40 years earlier when it was prepurposed as the orthodontist’s office. I recalled Friday afternoons waiting for painful dental appointments, where I would try to dispel the anxiety by reading Highlight’s magazine. The best part was the page with line drawing with hidden items – a girl with long flowing hair would be hidden in the bark of the tree, or a bunny rabbit would be hidden in the fluffy clouds. It was particularly irritating when some spoil sport had circled all the hidden objects, totally ruining the game.
I entered Wenban’s with the same mixture of anxiety and irritation, since I was sure that Wenban’s was going to try and rip me off. I had heard many years earlier about a scathing satire of the American funeral industry, titled, “The American Way of Death,”” by Jessica
Mitford. Jessica was one of the English quartet of Mitford sisters who achieved fame and notoriety in prewar England for their beauty and eccentricities. One sister was a communist, one a fascist who hob-nobbed with Hitler, one who more traditionally married one of the richest men in England, and Jessica, who became fascinated with American funerals. She pointed out the logically obvious fact that families arranging funerals are pathetically easy to take advantage of. A clientele addled by grief and guilt, infused with ready cash from an insurance policy to pay for it all, and in somewhat of a rush is a dream come true for the members of the death industry – the funeral homes, cemeteries and florists. A small novella by Evelyn Waugh called “The Loved One,” is a companion piece. This novel also skewers the funeral industry and includes a mortician named Mr. Joyboy as the main character. As I opened the door and walked into Wenban’s, I vowed to myself that I would not be played for a sap.
The lobby was predictably somber and heavily carpeted in dark rich tones. However, I was immediately puzzled by a bronze sculpture in the entryway depicting a hunting dog standing over a pheasant. Now I must say that dog did not have bared fangs as he lusted for the kill, nor was the pheasant cowering in abject fear as he contemplated his impending death. However, the sculpture did portray a predator/prey relationship that seemed a bit jarring for a funeral home. Oddly enough there was no reception desk, so I just sort of wandered around and finally peeked into a room and spotted a man sitting at an empty desk. This sallow young man seemed to fit the stereotype for a funeral director so I knocked and walked in. (Mitford’s book describes how the funeral industry has tried to elevate their status from that of a simple tradesmen to true professional. Therefore, the term “mortician” has been nixed and replaced by “funeral director” or even “grief counselor.”)
I was wearing my usual schlump dump outfit and since it was a hot and sticky July day, there were probably a few beads of perspiration on my brow. However Mr. Joyboy was decked out in a suit complete with a small hanky at the ready in his breast pocket. It struck me that the funeral parlor would probably be the last industry to transition to a business casual dress code – if I showed up at 3AM, Mr. Joyboy would be wearing the same outfit. He was expecting me, since Wenban’s had come to the house earlier that morning to pick up my mother. Mr. Joyboy said, “Please review this list of charges and sign at the bottom to acknowledge that you understand and agree to them.” At the top was a charge for some $2,000. I asked what this charge covered, and the basic answer was that this was a “nondeclinable fee” that merely covered the overhead of having a lush plush funeral home with 24 hour availability. Since we had already hired Wenban’s to pick up the body, there was no way that we could decline this overhead fee. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Joyboy pointed out, there was an additional $500 fee for picking up the body, and more fees for cremation and for something called an “errand car.” The list, which was excruciatingly unbundled, went on for another page and a half. But I had already been had, I had already been played for a sap by the deceptively simple phone call to pick up the body. Habeant corpus.
I realized that since I was helpless in their clutches, my mounting irritation would have to play out in other ways. I also realized that I was under no obligation to be polite. As a member of a grief stricken family, any standards of behavior would be up for grabs. I could be as snippy or downright rude as I wanted with no feelings of remorse. Realizing the futility of negotiating the charges, I chose another tack. “I would like to ask you about the sculpture in your front hall. Don’t you think that a hunting scene might be a little inappropriate for a funeral home?” Mr. Joyboy startled and said, “Why no, that is a very elegant sculpture.” I pressed further, “Well frankly, Mr. Joyboy, when I looked at it, I saw death, I saw violence and I saw an animal about to be killed, and it really put me off.”” Mr. Joyboy could only mumble, “Well many of our clients really like it.” Our session was over, I signed the paper ad left.
As I drove home, I recalled a recurring ad in one of our local papers that had a picture of some clouds with the caption, “Lakewood Crematorium, Direct Crematorium on the NorthShore since 1988.”” I decided to give them a call to figure out what direct cremation was. I ended up talking to a very friendly woman named Jeannette, who had started the business with her husband. And then in a stunning example of oversharing she said she got out of the business for several years since she thought that the stress was responsible for two miscarriages, but now after several successful pregnancies she has gotten back into the business. It turns out that direct cremation is basically a no frills funeral parlor, in fact there is no parlor. Lakewood provides a service where they will come and pick up the body, transport and from the crematorium and do other small tasks like filing the death certificate and delivering the cremains to the cemetery. (The term cremains as an alternative to ashes is another invention of the funeral industry, and stands as one of the most apt euphemisms every created.) Lakewood has a small office where you can come in and sign the necessary papers I envisioned something like a HR Block office with chipped linoleum floors and stainless steel desks, all of which would have been fine with me. Without any encouragement, Jeannette invited me to come tour their facility, which was located between the Harley Davidson dealership and the bowling alley. However, I begged off. I was suddenly weary of the whole thing.
The missing words in the following poem are anagrams (i.e. share the same letters like spot, post, stop) and the number of asterisks indicates the number of letters. One of the missing words will rhyme with either the previous or following line. Your job is to solve the missing words based on the above rules and the context of the poem. Scroll down for answers.
The mortician said please review this document, I want to make everything crystal clear.
To make sure our charges don’t go – – – – – – – – – please sign this page right here.”
The initial charge was $2,000 but I quickly saw that I was deluded,
Not – – – – – – – – – were fees for everything else; nothing but overhead was included.
There were fees for an errand car, death certificates, and on page 2 the unbundling – – – – – – – – – .
I realized that my signature merely acknowledged that I knew that I’d been screwed.
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Unnoticed, counted in, continued
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