A Wake

Say what you will about other things, but the Catholics know how to throw a wake. Of course, being a Catholic myself I'm prejudiced, and I admit I don't have much experience of the mourning ways of non-Catholics, so maybe all I should say is that wakes are a good thing. I'm not saying death is a good thing, but it is inescapable, and a wake is a great thing when the inevitable does occur.

I went to another wake yesterday ("You go to a lot of wakes," a friend of mine said; well, I live where I've lived practically my whole life, I'm getting older, more and more people I've known are dying, the ultimate fact of life). The wake was for a great man I have known pretty much my entire life. I saw people there I see regularly and some people I haven't seen in twenty-five or thirty years. So, in a weirdly social way, wakes can be enjoyable, even fun. Of course they're sad, and in cases of young or sudden or tragic deaths, they can be quite painful. But the sympathetic, empathetic, sheer camaraderie aspect of the wake can be quite soothing and uplifting.

I love the more recent trend of having posterboards and posterboards filled with pictures of the deceased. As you're looking at these while waiting in line to "view" the dead body of the person, the pictures are a great reminder of the vitality, fun, and love of the person. The pictures can also help you identify family members you haven't seen in a long while but will soon be greeting in the receiving line.

As a getting-older-by-the-day middle-ager, thanks to wakes I'm given a glimpse of what's to come in my life: an older woman told some friends yesterday, "All I ever do on the weekends anymore is go to wakes." And she said it with a smile and a shrug of the shoulders. So, social life in my older days taken care of: wakes.

Unfortunately, as always, you have to keep the ego at bay when you go to a wake. You start looking around while waiting in a long line and all kinds of selfish thoughts start to creep in if you're not careful: there'll be twice the line at my wake; better make sure that sexy picture of me in my prime is right on top of my effects so it definitely forms the centerpiece of one of my posterboards; make mental note to establish a flower allowance--from now on, anybody I know who dies gets an arrangement at their wake so that when the time comes, there will be so much flora at my wake people will think a new rain forest has sprouted in Cleveland, Ohio; trim nosehairs more regularly. Adieu adieu, all's vanity.

Some of my favorite wake stories all involve one particular wake. An older man who had lived a great life had passed away. Having been to two devastating wakes the previous two weeks for young suicides, I was a bit relieved--this particular wake was going to be one of the more celebratory, not so painfully sad ones. However, I went with a couple friends with rather distinct personalities. One was a non-Catholic going to his first ever wake. A usually jovial, super-social person, this guy was all tense: what do I do, what do I say, what's it like (and I'm thinking, this will be a piece of cake compared the last two I've been to). Another of the friends I went to the wake with was just plain nuts--afterward he was convinced that one of the daughters of the deceased, a sister of our friend, had been hitting on him during the ten minutes we were at the wake. Pretty unlikely, John (God rest his soul--his wake a few years ago was one of the heaviest for me). Anyway, we wait in line and when it comes time to greet the widow, I say a standard, "I'm sorry for your loss," because what else do you say? And she fired back, "Not as sorry as I am." Just how do you respond to that one? "Oh no you're not?" Threw me for a loop. Well the next day I hear the story of the good friend who showed up just as the wake was supposed to be ending. Unfortunately, he thought the wake still had an hour to go, so he felt bad there was no else there and tried to stall by making painful small talk with the grieving family who had been standing there for 4+ hours and just wanted to sit down and get something to eat. Finally they had to tell the guy, it's over, we're outta here. He told me all of this the next day. What he didn't tell me, and what I found out later, was that the whole time he was making stalling small talk, his fly was inadvertently down. When I then related that piece of news back to him, he nearly crumbled out of embarrassment.

One of the funniest and best baseball stories I ever heard was at a tough wake, told by one guy to another, the two of them obviously not having as tough a time at the wake as I was having. Life goes on.

Years ago I saw a great cartoon: a woman in a flowery dress, leaning over the casket in which another woman wearing the same dress lies in repose, says to the corpse: "Bitch."

And then there's the classic joke--what's the difference between an Irish wake and an Irish wedding? One less drunk.

From the ridiculous to the sublime. One of the few things I miss most from teaching is hearing this choir, especially singing this beautiful song. Take a listen. 

I'm Goin' Up Yonder--Glee Club and Choir of Laurel School by spitoutyourgumblog