Visits With Dead People: Family Memories

“You should always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise, they won’t come to yours.” ~ Yogi Berra

I’ve been exposed to dead people my whole life.  As a high school and college student I worked in a cemetery.  Perhaps that course was set after a run of childhood vacations spent chasing down dead people.  Then again, maybe it all started when I was 4 years old and my family left me at the funeral home. 

You know that feeling when you can’t find your kid but you’re pretty sure you left them somewhere in the house or the store or the water park?  (If you don’t know what I’m talking about you may be a helicopter parent.)  Well, my mom got to have that experience about ten minutes after driving the family away from a funeral home.  With a dead person there.

Come to think of it, those old wagons kinda look like hearses.

For my part, I remember wandering around looking for the people that I had arrived with.  They were the same people I had spent my entire four years with–one mom, one aunt, two sisters, one grandma and her twin sister.  That was the whole list, so I didn’t need long to deduce they weren’t there.  The pack had moved on in our cursed beloved station wagon and left me there. 

You would be amazed at what 4 year olds are equipped to deal with (or remember for that matter).  As the situation sank in, I realized how dark this particular establishment was.  When you’re little, dark rooms can be intimidating.  Strangers are also on the “stay away from” list.  The deceased in this case wasn’t even a family member so the people there were unfamiliar to me.  Losing your family can also be stressful.  If you combine all that stuff and then throw a dead person into the middle of the room, you could imagine my reaction.  I ended up at the other end of the building in front of a massive window with sunlight pouring in.  Who knows when the sobbing had begun.

Some teenager found me and calmed me down.  I’m sure he explained that my family hadn’t left me to live in the funeral home with dead people who would eat me by nightfall.  By the time my family pulled up in front of the place, me and that guy were just hanging out on the front steps. 

I guess it sounds pretty bad, but what’s an afternoon of tears compared to a lifetime of laughter?  And therapy.  I’m kidding.  Writing is my therapy.  One of the things I love most about my mom is that she never failed to see the humor in this situation.  As I grew up and we occasionally reminisced about that day with laughter, I knew my future kids were doomed.  Try getting sympathy from a dad who was left with a corpse as a toddler.