My Funeral, Unplugged

My grandmother was a Dalton and my mother was a Clifford. I grew up surrounded by Kelleys and Morans and Meahans and Costellos. With this sort of ethnic background, it stands to reason that I’ve already given considerable thought to planning my funeral.

Funeral planning calls for the perfect Irish Stew of self-pity, maudlin focus on the negative and, of course, a big, loud party. My Mom’s friend Mrs. Koboldt (nee Mary Margaret Meahan) used to extract the same promise from her friends every time she’d had a few highballs: “Everyone has to drive separately from the church to the cemetery. I want a cortege so long that it’s backing out the gates and onto the street.” That someone would give this much thought to creating a traffic jam, even after death, offers just a glimpse into the interior life, such as it is, of the people I come from.

It’s a tradition that goes back a long way. My grandfather, Walter Aloysius Clifford, had a sister, Nanna, who had worked, in her youth, as a professional mourner. Back in the days when bodies were laid out in the back parlor of a shotgun flat, Nanna’s job was to sit with the deceased while everyone else sat in the kitchen for the wake. Nanna’s frequent sobs and moans were the perfect reason to offer yet another toast to the dearly departed, and everyone left the sad occasion feeling happy, usually very happy.

Last year, I went to way too many funerals to allow for denial of my own encroaching years (here’s another blog about one of them). When you start to bury your contemporaries, you’re getting old. But I used to love to go to funerals when I was a child. My mother was the youngest in her family, so lots of old Irish aunties were always being laid out for three-night visitations (the Irish believe that too much of anything is just about right).

I saw a lot of dead, embalmed bodies in my childhood, and learned that discussion of the “natural and peaceful” look of the corpse was perfectly acceptable conversation. The funeral parlors in which these shindigs were held achieved a level of elegance – fresh paint, fresh flowers and carpet instead of linoleum – that I never saw in my own home. I remember ladies’ rooms with fainting couches, cousins I got to see only at funerals, and uncles who gave me quarters to buy sodas from the Coke machine in the basement. What’s not to like?

I had a long stretch there, between childhood and last year, in which I went to very few funerals. So entering into the world of mourning again, after being away so long, was quite a shock. I suppose I should have expected it in an age where weddings have taken on the nature of long-running Broadway shows, but funerals have become glossy, technological Life Shows! After experiencing a few of these events recently, I’m not entirely sure that it’s a trend I welcome for myself -- not the table after table of artifacts and photographs, and certainly not the ubiquitous continuous loop PowerPoint of Happier Times.

When a beautiful and brave friend recently died, I was surprised to find myself receiving a telephone call from a woman who gave me a display assignment. I was to gather photos from an annual event in which the deceased and I had been regular participants. “30” x 40” foamcore,” she had told me crisply. “I’ve got the costume she wore at the opening night play, so see if you can find a dress form.”

Suddenly, I felt as if it were 1990 and I was working on the flip charts for the big Chevy presentation in Detroit. Or, worse, that tomorrow was the Science Fair and I hadn’t even conducted my first experiment. I sent out frantic messages to friends, trolling for photos, and visited Office Max for my presentation board.

As I pulled my display together, I felt a decided mix of emotions. On the one hand, this woman was an incredible source of light and love to anyone who ever met her. Paintings should be painted for her, poems written. I felt that my Science Fair offering, while well-meaning, was selling her a little short.

I wondered what she would have wanted. The funeral was the Saturday before Christmas, and I was leaving the following day for 17 days in China. I had a few other things I could have been doing besides wrestling with the double-stick tape. I could easily imagine my friend saying, “Really, don’t bother, just attend to your ‘to do’ list, and think a nice thought of me when you get a chance on that long flight.” But she deserved a memorial that was brimming over with intention and care, and I understood the desire by those who were planning it to create something tangible, and to ask the people who had benefitted from the joy of this woman’s friendship to contribute a tiny tribute, however homely and ineffective the effort.

When I arrived at the memorial service on Saturday night, toting my display, I found the proper easel and stood back, taking in the contributions from all the other people who had gathered their memories of this dear lady, all within the confines of thirty by forty inches. I understood the message, loud and clear: She mattered. She mattered enough for me to dig through the photo album, for you to make a trip to Office Max. She was worth a little hassle with the double-stick tape.

We pass through this world so quickly, and our departure, often, has the impact of a hand removed from a bucket of water. I can’t fault anyone for wanting to show that their beloved has left something lasting behind. I remember a sermon once where the congregation was asked to raise our hands if we knew our grandparent’s names. Then we raised our hands if we remembered the names of our great-grandparents. By the time the speaker got to great-great-great-grandparents, no hands were raised. “How quickly we are forgotten,” he said.

But still. Because I’ve worked in corporations most of my adult life, I think I’m just not the right person for the Life Show! experience. Those easels have held too many logos and scope charts and Venn diagrams of the latest thing we’ve been trying to sell somebody, for me to ever feel anything but itchy in their presence. I’ve had enough disasters with PowerPoint formatting, lenses, projectors and screens to forever fix that particular program in my mind as an Instrument of Torture, not a vehicle for happy memories. And, however therapeutic the simple act of creating a memorial board might be, I want my friends to take their time having a bubble bath before my service, and to spend time at my funeral lapping up champagne and gossiping relentlessly about the 20-year-old cabana boy with whom my body was found.

So, it’s official: I never, in life or death, want to be responsible for the creation of one more PowerPoint. Just take another glass of champers from the tray that’s being passed by that twinkly out-of-work actor, and relax for five minutes. When you think about it, raise your glass to me, and know that we’ll be seeing each other again, soon enough.

This I Believe: The Power of Soup

In 2005, I was standing at the stove, stirring a simmering stockpot and listening to the radio. I heard Deirdre Sullivan's submission for This I Believe, titled Always Go to the Funeral. The precepts and particulars of that essay stayed with me, and, this spring, I wrote a reflection on putting her words into action.

In all these years, though, I've never had an "aha" moment that could help me distill my own beliefs into one thesis statement and 500 words. Then, as I was reading the project's newest book, Life Lessons, it came to me.  I believe in the power of soup.  Here are my 500 words on that subject:

I believe in the masterpieces that everyday people can create, when they’re given a chance. I believe in sharing nourishment with my friends. I believe in warm, tasty liquids on a freezing cold day. I believe in the power of soup.

I started hosting soup swaps four years ago, after reading about Knox Gardner, a Seattle resident who loved to cook big pots of soup but who quickly tired of his own cooking. He had an idea to bring friends together for an evening to talk about, and swap, containers of their favorite soups. His hope was not only to fill his freezer with tasty meals, but, as he said, “foster a community of friends and families to create traditions around food and sharing.”

I held my first soup swap shortly after I read that article, and I’ve never looked back. I host two swaps a year, one in spring and one in fall, although I had a friend tell me recently that she thought I held them every month. That would just be crazy, but it shows what an impact the swaps have had. The concept is simple:  arrive with six containers of frozen soup, tell the group about your creation, pick a number, and then take turns selecting new soups to take home and enjoy.  

In Minnesota, where I live, the winters are cold and long, and the prospect of brand-new soup, maybe a kind I’ve never tried before, or one from a friend who’s a great cook, can liven up many dreary weeknight suppers and Saturday afternoon lunches. But it’s more than that, of course – it’s the friendships and bonds that are formed when we share the stories of our precious creations with each other. Like the woman who told us that she was the only grandkid who ever cooked with Grandma, and how now all her siblings want to come over to her house for bowls of Grandma’s Famous Vegetable Soup. Or the newlywed who swapped Artichoke Bisque, the same kind of soup that she and her boyfriend were eating when he proposed. Or the friend who told of her transformative vacation at a Colorado dude ranch, and how she’d convinced the chef to share the recipe for Roasted Poblano and Squash Soup to help her remember that time.

There are chances to give back, too. One year, I had a friend who had just started chemotherapy treatment, so I asked guests to bring along an extra container. Their generosity allowed me to deliver twenty quarts of soup to my ailing friend and her family.

Soup is slow. You just cannot rush soup. Soup is nourishing. Even when some of the ingredients are slightly decadent, it’s nourishing for all the parts of you, not just the waistline. And, perhaps most importantly for the place where I live, soup is warm. When I open my freezer and heat up a friend’s recipe, I think of her and I connect with her. All over one bowl of soup.

Always Go to the Funeral (with Bonus Fashion Tips)

Olivia thought that her purple nail polish might be too cheerful, and wondered if she had time to switch to a more mournful shade. Mary Katherine emerged from her bedroom in a black wrap dress and pumps she’d gotten at the secondhand store, accessorized with a black-veiled headband that gave her the air of a billionaire's widow at the reading of the will. “How do we look?” they wanted to know. “Like good friends,” I said, picking up my car keys and getting our show on the road.

Mary Katherine’s school pal had lost her grandfather over spring break. When Meg had called to cancel a sleepover and mall date they’d planned, and Mary told me the reason, I let her know that we’d be visiting the funeral home soon. When she wanted to know why, I intoned one of the cardinal rules I’ve picked up in the past few years: Always go to the funeral.  

Deirdre Sullivan’s essay for the This I Believe project, which I first heard on NPR in 2005, had a lasting impact on the way I try to live my life. In that essay, Sullivan said, “Sounds simple — when someone dies, get in your car and go to calling hours or the funeral. That, I can do. But I think a personal philosophy of going to funerals means more than that. ‘Always go to the funeral’ means that I have to do the right thing when I really, really don’t feel like it. I have to remind myself of it when I could make some small gesture, but I don’t really have to and I definitely don’t want to. I’m talking about those things that represent only inconvenience to me, but the world to the other guy. You know, the painfully under-attended birthday party. The hospital visit during happy hour. The Shiva call for one of my ex’s uncles. In my humdrum life, the daily battle hasn’t been good versus evil. It’s hardly so epic. Most days, my real battle is doing good versus doing nothing.”

Sullivan’s rhetoric gave me some needed backbone, and I urged the girls forward as if it would be impossible for us not to go. So, on a Thursday afternoon during spring break, we were rustling around in the back of our closets, looking for our best black clothes. The girls were worried about the dress code, as if there would be a Funeral Bouncer who would inspect them for non-black items and toss them out onto 50^th street. I felt myself treading carefully around this topic, aiming to instill an understanding of Dressing Appropriately while not being one of those people who believe that a proper wardrobe is the one sure sign of moral superiority. I have, in my life, observed incredible kindness by people who got all their fashion advice from Jaclyn Smith at Wal-Mart, and unrelenting, lockjaw cruelty by the twinset and pearls crowd. But still, this was a funeral, and I owed them some advice.

I tried this:  “Here’s the thing -- I saw someone at Olivia’s grandmother’s visitation wearing shorts and garden clogs, girls, so don’t get too worried about this. I guess my advice is – if you have something nice and dark to wear, that’s great, but we shouldn’t let our clothes keep us from going, and we really shouldn’t judge what other people are wearing. Some of the nastiest people I’ve ever known have the most correct wardrobes, and that garden clog guy probably really loved O’s grandma. You never know.”

That seemed to mollify them, and we headed out. Once in the car, their fashion decisions now irrevocable, the girls began to worry about the next part of this adventure in grief and consolation. Always looking for her lines, Mary asked, “What do we say?” Always seeking to maintain some semblance of control, Olivia asked, “What exactly will happen and when?” I threw suggestions over my shoulder and into the backseat, the way I had been doing for years. Keeping my eyes on the road meant that I never saw the eyerolls or sad shrugs that accompanied my words, which was probably best. “Keep it simple,” I said. "Try something like -- 'I’m sorry about your grandpa; how are you doing?'"

Once there, we wandered past the curated Life Show that has now become the modern funeral – easeled collages of photos, memorabilia laid out on a table, big-screen tv with continuous loop PowerPoint. The girls found Meg and said the right words, which were graciously received. Meg suggested that she introduce them to all her cousins, and they headed off. I talked to Meg’s parents until the girls showed up. Her dad, who had just lost his father after a long illness, received huge bonus points from Mary Katherine when he praised her veiled headband. “Perfect for a funeral,” he told her appreciatively. “I know, right?” she squealed with tweeny abandon, forgetting about the reason for the getup and just savoring the accessory perfection.

I had promised “20 minutes max,” so we made our way to the door. Mary, whose vision has recently been sharpened by a surge of estrogen, had only one thought when we left the funeral home:  “That place was full of cute boys!” she squealed. She seems to see them everywhere these days, like Ray Milland and the DT bats in Lost Weekend. Meg’s cousins, it turns out, had included a hefty proportion of cute boys, cleaned up for the occasion. In Mary’s mind, funerals now ranked with the mall for CBAs (Cute Boy Alerts).

We headed into Uptown, the girls rearranging their ensembles with other accessories they’d brought along. Mary Katherine’s Grieving Heiress turned into Desperately Seeking Susan around Lake Calhoun, and Olivia’s Somber Friend became Urban Hipster in the Calhoun Square parking lot.

Later that night, I bought them grilled cheese and burgers at the Uptown Cafeteria, and they split a malt. Their tiny bit of duty now completed, they giggled over their cotton candy and compared notes on the cousins. I thought about all the meals I’d shared with these two, and all the laughs we’d had together.  I hoped they’d have a friendship that would last for years. Perhaps someday they’d be together at my funeral. With any luck, they’d tell stories and share laughs at my champagne-soaked wake afterward, attended by the 20-year-old pool boy with whom my body had been found.

“Let’s toast,” I said, before we left, raising my mug of coffee to their chocolate malt glasses. “To good friends.”

Here’s Deirdre Sullivan's 2005 essay: Always Go to the Funeral