The architect who designed the First Baptist Church of Backwater, Mississippi hadn't taken into account the possibility of having to carry a solid mahogany casket with a 250lb. man inside it down 50 steps at a 45ยบ incline.
We managed to get him into the back of the hearse with minor damage to the bumper, and as the funeral procession pulled away from the curb, a driver approaching the intersection from our right plowed into one of the vehicles in our convoy. If you’re going to be grieving anyway, you might as well throw in the fact that your automobile is a total loss.
When we arrived at the cemetery, the previous night’s rainhad left the ground soggy and muddy. I struggled to keep my composure as I sloshed through ankle deep water in my dressshoes, scraping my shins as I stepped over the tombstones of neighboring gravesites, trying desperately to maintain a facial expression of solemnity and respect for the dearly departed while lifting 1/3 of a casket that weighed more than a grand piano.
Whoever set up the apparatus which is used to lower the casket into the open grave had neglected to engage the brake, so when we set the it down there was creaking sound followed by the ghastly sight of the coffin descending prematurely into the open grave.
We rushed forward to grab hold of it as the soft dirt at the edge of the grave crumbled beneath our feet. The gravediggers in cowboy hats and jeans waiting like vultures for the mourners to leave so they could finish their ghoulish task sprang into action and got everything locked down.
The entire family and assembled guests looked on in horror as the casket came to rest at an absurd angle...partially in and partially out of the grave. Just then I heard one of the nephews shout “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer!” Something told me that a redneck high school dropout from a town with two traffic lights didn’t keep an attorney on retainer.
The service was well-attended, and in true Southern Baptist tradition the funeral was an excuse to have a huge meal. When we arrived at the family’s home there was an enormous spread laid out which covered all of the kitchen counters and the dining table, and included a mountain of potato salad, the obligatory green Jello™ with shredded carrots in suspended animation and the house wine of the south...sweetened ice tea.
Everyone had changed into more comfortable clothing, so I headed to the master bedroom to do the same. I knocked on the door, and a voice inside said “Come in!” As I entered, I was greeted by a friend who had just come out of the closet…and I don’t mean the place where you hang your clothes. If there's one thing folks love more than food, it's dishing out dirt, so the gossip had already been passed around the circle, with second helpings for some.
He and I began to get undressed, and precisely at the moment when we both bent over with our pants around our ankles, in walked the widow of the man whose funeral we had just attended. She recoiled in horror as if he had stumbled into the communal shower of a Turkish prison.
We emerged from the bedroom a few minutes later wearing different clothes than when we had entered, and I was sure I saw a few disapproving looks as we sat down together, our plates piled with food.
As we ate our fried chicken and potato salad and green Jello™ and fruit salad with marshmallows and lemon meringue pie made from scratch, we exchanged stories about a man who had lived a life well-spent. We all agreed on one thing…that this husband, father, son, brother, uncle and friend to many would be sorely missed.
