Rough Stone Rolling

A friend died about a month ago and we attended his funeral service at our old ward building. I knew John for about 23 years, and while I wouldn’t say we were tight, spending that much time in close proximity can’t help but create some moments of camaraderie.

The chapel was filled with a lot of familiar faces, cast members who either starred or cameoed in different parts of that time period. It was a most opportune time to catch up with old friends. There were pictures of John in various stages of his life all over the foyer, and everyone signed the guest book  as they milled in. The service itself was officiated by a member of the bishopric, and performed by friends and family. The best parts, of course, were not the singing or droll poem recitations, but the anecdotes– recollections of John’s generosity, achievements and humor. It was part tribute, part roast. When we left the service, there was no doubt in our minds he was very much loved. Perhaps the saintly portrait painted was a tad hyperbolic (as is often the case in such events), but John did leave his mark. Afterward, there was food and the burial; we didn’t attend either.

I didn’t like it (the funeral, that is) and I hope mine isn’t anything like it. Most of the attendees wouldn’t have shown up for John’s birthday party, so why bother after he’s gone? As was quipped in The Big Chill,

“Amazing tradition. They throw a great party for you on the one day they know you can’t come.”

I would prefer a gathering of strictly close friends in a house, sharing funny stories and laughing themselves to tears. Give me a wake, I’d even provide an open bar. There’s a Hollywood legend that when the great John Barrymore died, his friends propped in a chair with a drink in his hand while they played pool all night. Now, that’s class.

The other thing about funerals that goes against my grain is all the expense and hassle. The arrangements, preparing the body, the coffin, the flowers, the hearst, the plot. Sometimes I think I’d prefer to die in an apocalyptic disaster so the family wouldn’t have to go through all of it. Changing in the twinkling of an eye would be nice, too.

I would also hate to think people volleyed accolades and compliments about me that I never heard when I was around. It’s like having a winning lottery ticket that isn’t scratched until after it’s expired; or the girl you adored from afar in high school telling you she always had a crush on you– at your 10-year reunion, both married with kids.

I’m going to have to give some serious thought to my funeral arrangements. It needs to be something intimate and novel… modest and reasonable… tasteful and honest.

How much does it cost to rent a wood chipper?