Nobody has died lately and that’s not necessarily a good thing. It’s not that Uncle Nunzio wants any of his friends to go to their eternal reward, he just misses the good times at the funeral parlor. Please don’t accuse Uncle of being disrespectful; he merely views the funeral parlor as more of a clubhouse where he and his friends can freely discuss politics and sports (if you can call wrestling a sport). In the best of all possible worlds, a chance acquaintance would “cash in his chips” (the unfortunate phrase no doubt influenced by frequent bus trips to the casino), one that would provide the opportunity to gather with his friends, and where grief would hopefully not spoil things.
On such occasions, Uncle and his pals would wait for the funeral parlor to open so they would have something to do for the entire evening, particularly if no wrestling was televised that night. Uncle always follows the time-honored ritual of checking out the flowers around the casket (skimpy means the relatives are cheap). He always brings a Mass card, even if the deceased wasn’t Catholic. True prayers said at the Mass might not help the non-believer get into heaven, but Uncle contents himself in the belief that somebody has to think of the atheists, too. The value of the Mass card depends on how close you are to the deceased.
Lately, floral arrangements have had a decidedly Atlantic City influence. It is not unusual to see carnations in the form of a roulette wheel to express the deceased’s favorite game of chance. Recently, at a local mobster’s wake, they must’ve emptied half the shops in the tri-county area for the floral version of a craps table with the dice showing craps. That was talked about for some time.
As he approaches the survivors, seated or standing around the open coffin holding the waxy corpse, Uncle always remarks the deceased never looked better. This isn’t always the case, but white lies are only venial sins. At this point, Uncle and his friends would check their watches and make sure they are safely in the funeral home basement before the good priest begins the rosary. Rosary avoidance is also a time-honored ritual. Uncle knew of one time his friend Vito wound up in Methodist Hospital when he was caught in the stampede of men running out of the funeral parlor trying to avoid the rosary. It is hard to explain this phenomenon to non-Catholics. Uncle has it down to a science. In his crowd, he is very much admired for his sixth sense of when the likeable padre will come walking into the funeral parlor, fingering his rosary beads. He feels sorry for his buddy, Salvatore, who has no such gift, and is seemingly doomed to repeat the rosary at every funeral he attends, quite probably even his own.
Funerals in our family are more dicey than the viewing. Each of my aunts, at one time or another, has tossed herself into the open grave in a moment of untold sorrow. Their grief is boundless. Aunt Millie, God rest her soul, once threw herself into the gravesite of a man who was merely her corner grocer. It has been Uncle Nunzio’s burden to be the one responsible for catching the falling aunt before she joins the deceased. He has been spectacularly successful on all but one occasion.
Unfortunately, it was his own wife, dear Aunt Millie, who slipped from his grasp and fell in with a thunk to join dearly departed Uncle Alphonso, who was resting peacefully in his coffin. Luckily, she only suffered a slight bump on her head and some skepticism that Uncle had intentionally let her fall.
After the funeral, our family always has a luncheon catered at a restaurant near Holy Cross Cemetery. I am always surprised at the recuperative powers of my grieving aunts. Aunt Michelina once ate half a roast porchetta, complete with half a dozen hot peppers and a loaf of Italian bread, just an hour removed from attempting self-burial at the gravesite. But, as Aunt Michelina always says as she wipes the juice away from her mouth, “Life must go on.”
When I began this piece, Uncle was feeling depressed by the recent lack of funerals. He has determined, in times like this, he might have to take things into his own hands. Uncle has convinced Vito and the others, instead of waiting for someone they know to die, they should take a walk down South Broad Street on a Friday night and crash a funeral parlor. If they are careful to follow the time-honored rituals, no one will be aware they are crashing the wake.
This could turn out well. There is really nothing like a funeral without the grief.
