Funereal Thoughts: Back Stories

 

Rose in El Paso Municipal Rose Garden. El Paso, Texas. May 2019. Credit: Mzuriana

The fragrance of roses

When still in high school, I worked at the high-end fragrance counter at the flagship store of The May Company. 

The experienced saleswoman at that counter introduced me to Joy Perfume by Jean Patou (now defunct for the most part), which she said was the most expensive perfume in the world. Indeed, it branded itself as "the costliest perfume in the world." (I learned later that this wasn't quite accurate, but still, it was and is damned dear.)

Joy by Jean Patou, vintage ad. Source: Fragrantica.

At her invitation, I took a whiff. 

Oh, I thought, underwhelmed. Funerals. 

My paternal grandparents owned a funeral home

When I was a child, my family spent many a holiday, especially around Christmas, at the funeral home. The family living quarters were split between the basement level and the second-floor bedrooms. On the main level were the viewing rooms, the gathering rooms for the grieving, the funeral office, and the embalming rooms. 

The fragrance of roses, emanating from wreaths and sprays and urns, dwelt on the main floor, as did the dead. 

I felt no creepiness about vacationing among the dead and their grieving families and friends, and I have no negative associations between roses and death. 

Nevertheless, anointing myself with the fragrance of funerals is not the aromatic statement I wish to make. 

Cemetery. Grand Coteau, Louisiana. March 2015. Credit: Mzuriana

My father's funeral

My father's death was not unexpected; he'd been in hospice care at home for some time. My mother and two siblings were with him when he died. 

When he died at age 75, on the cusp between "young-old" and "middle-old," I accompanied my mother to the funeral home, to the florist, and to other funereal stops. 

A rite of passage: Shadowing an elder to learn how to arrange a loved one's funeral. 

My mother's funeral

At the time my mother arranged for my father's funeral, she - a pragmatic woman - decided to pre-plan and pre-pay for an almost-identical funeral for herself, which would come 15 years hence at the age of 91. 

She wrote out her entire plan, and also instructed me verbally. The instructions included three important features: 

• She would be buried in a pretty, white cotton nightgown.
• In her hands would be a book that she would enjoy reading in her eternity; not the Bible. (One of her brothers was buried with a Wall Street Journal.)
• Ave Maria would be sung at her funeral. 

She wrote out her own obituary, keeping it formulaic, and indeed, bland. Fortunately, I was asked to write a blurb for her funeral Mass program, and thus had the freedom to bring color to the summary of her life essence. 

We honored all of her wishes, and her final gathering was a lovely one, to the surprise of no one, as she'd always been an accomplished hostess. 

My funeral plan

As a new arrival in the Land of Age, it is wise to consider my own demise. Travel insurance, you might say. A courtesy to my daughter. 

I wrote up my funeral preferences years ago, but it's been years since I pulled it out from whatever archival resting place I interred it, and so I have to go dig it up. 

San Lázaro Cemetery, Antigua, Guatemala. April 2016. Credit: Mzuriana.