Thoughts of a funeralgoer

Posted by Lyra Mollington

There is not a lot of enthusiasm amongst my friends for discussing funerals.  Even Daisy cannot help raising an eyebrow.   However there are a few people who, given the opportunity, are eager to talk, even to a virtual stranger. 

When Colin and I were walking on Barnes Common last weekend, I started chatting to a fellow dog-walker.  We had spoken on several occasions, albeit briefly and usually about dogs or the weather.  This man’s dog is a butch-looking mid-grey Staffie cross.  I already knew how his wife had ‘completely ruined’ his plans to name the dog Storm (something to do with a film called ‘Hard To Kill’ which I keep meaning to Google).  She got her own way ‘as usual’ and named him Misty.

As we surveyed the puddles around us, we started discussing the drought.  One thing led to another and I mentioned my hobby of writing about funerals.  Well, talk about lighting the touch paper! He began telling me about his friend who had stated IN WRITING that he did not want ANY kind of funeral ceremony or service.  After his friend died, Misty’s owner was HORRIFIED when he received an invitation to the FUNERAL.  I sympathised, although I was tempted to say that he was being a little hard on his friend’s family and definitely shouting too much.  However, mindful of Misty who seemed to be staring at me menacingly, I asked if he had made any requests for his own send-off.

Indeed he had!  Like his friend, he too did NOT want a funeral and he had already told EVERYONE this – including his doctor and his dentist. He then began complaining about the cost of coffins and wondered whether a body could be delivered to the crematorium in a sheet?  I wasn’t certain that it could.  In any case I was sure he would want to avoid any problems with leakage.  Perhaps some kind of plastic body bag might be necessary – and maybe even a plank of wood to provide the necessary rigidity. 

My mind was now firing on all cylinders and I was ignoring the strange looks we were getting from passers-by.  Thinking out loud, I said he should consider ordering a flat-pack cardboard coffin.  Then, let his nearest and dearest know where it’s stored (including, if he must, his doctor and dentist).  He could write in large letters on the lid and sides of his coffin, ‘Straight to the cremator – NO ceremony!’  If he ordered a white or pale-coloured one, a black marker pen would be extremely effective.  He thought this was a splendid idea.  With a cheery wave he continued on his way.  Which was quite a relief as Colin was becoming slightly on edge by the attention he was getting from Misty.

As we walked back I wondered whether he really would buy his own coffin.  It then started to rain again and I hoped that he would remember to use a permanent marker pen. Not that any of this is a guarantee that his wishes will be honoured.  His loved ones will say that the coffin and its message simply illustrate what a unique or eccentric character he had been. Or they could cover up the message with collage.  Or buy a new coffin… 

Oh dear, he needs a better plan.  Although I am beginning to question whether he has any loved ones, apart from Misty of course. 

Posted by Lyra Mollington

Not long after I had decided on a burial shroud made of wool, lo and behold, up pops a woollen coffin – at the funeral of an elderly lady who loved knitting!  I have to confess that, yet again, I did not know the deceased.  I happened to be in the graveyard when I saw the cortege coming through the gates towards the crematorium chapel.  Daisy was with me and we both slipped in at the back.  Well, I slipped in and Daisy reluctantly followed knowing it was her best chance of a lift home.

Not only was it a woollen coffin, balls of wool and knitting needles had been cleverly incorporated into the floral display.  Luckily the curtains weren’t closed so, when everyone had left, I got my digital camera out whilst Daisy stood anxiously by the door.  She really shouldn’t have worried.  As I pointed out to her later, there are some advantages to being a smartly dressed lady of a certain age.  Never am I asked questions such as, ‘What are you doing?’ Or, ‘Who said you were allowed in here?’ Or even, ‘Why are you taking photographs of the coffin of a complete stranger?’ In any case, by the time the funeral director returned to retrieve the flowers, the camera was back in my handbag and I had taken three photos.  And (hurrah!) one was in focus.  Seb tells me that I’m too impatient – apparently my auto setting is automatic not instant – but in the heat of the moment it’s difficult not to get carried away. 

Imagine my surprise when only three days later, I attended another funeral with an equally imaginative yet tasteful floral tribute.  This time, it was for a gentleman who was passionate about gardening.  He spent as much time as possible in his allotment where he grew all manner of vegetables.  Yes, you’ve guessed it – the florists best place to buy generic cialis (such creative people) had incorporated veg into the floral arrangement!  There was a lovely assortment including curly kale and purple sprouting broccoli.  Sadly, I was unable to take a photograph.  Even I draw the line at sneaking behind the curtains. 

It’s fairly common for people to place objects on top of the coffin.  I’ve seen flat caps, medals, teddy bears, hip flasks and a tea pot, but recently I’ve noticed that more people are thinking outside the catalogue when it comes to ordering flowers.  However, I’m not so keen on those displays where the flowers are cut and stuck together to resemble an object.  Or, even worse, when they have been sprayed with paint to achieve the desired effect.  Nevertheless, I do admire the skill of the person who can make Paddington Bear out of a giant block of oasis and an assortment of flower heads.

Which brings me on to flowers in the shape of letters spelling out MUM, DAD and NAN.  I’ll admit that when I first started seeing flower-names I was dreadfully stuck-up about it.  Saying it with flowers was being taken too literally.  But rather like digital television and the internet, I have warmed to the idea.  There was no doubting their impact when, on my recent tour of the crematorium, I saw GRANDDAUGHTER sitting on the flower terrace. 

Then, two days ago, I saw flowers spelling out a rude word in the back of a passing hearse.  I am sure that such things are unremarkable to the broad-minded readers of the GFG blog.  However, I was taken aback – not what Mr Chunky and I were expecting to see on our way to Barnes Common!

And then I realised I was smiling.  Just as I had smiled when I saw Pat’s balls of wool and Victor’s turnips.  And isn’t that how we want to remember the people we love – with a smile?  

Posted by Lyra Mollington

I love a man in a kilt.

This week I was treated to the magnificent sight of dozens of men in kilts!  It was Braveheart without all the blood and gore!  As the hearse came through the gates, the pipe band marched at a slow and steady pace, playing Highland Cathedral, one of my favourite tunes on the bagpipes.

With the unsettled weather we’ve been having lately, it was a relief when the sun shone brightly that morning.  But there was also a stiff breeze – just enough wind to add a little drama to the proceedings.

I have to confess that I didn’t know the Scottish gentleman who had died.  I’d heard about the funeral on the grapevine and I felt hopeful that it would be more engaging than the sombre send-offs that have been the norm in recent months.

Whilst I greatly enjoyed hearing the band when we were standing outside, I was relieved that only one of the pipers played as we entered the chapel.  Robbie’s widow looked both dignified and radiant in a pale cream suit and tartan scarf.  Sitting next to her was a man with a beard.  His name was Angus and he read the only eulogy.  He was tall with sturdy calves, and extremely entertaining.  He began like this…

‘Let’s face it, Robbie was a bit of a show-off and he wore his tartan at every opportunity – he didnae save it for best!  Once when he was walking across Trafalgar Square, two middle-aged women approached him.  One of them said, “I’ve always wanted to know but I was too afraid to ask: is anything worn under the kilt?”

“No madam,” said Robbie with a completely straight face. “Everything under my kilt is in pristine condition and in perfect working order.”’

Having lightened the mood, albeit with an old joke, Angus continued by telling us that Robbie was one of three children.  To Robbie’s embarrassment, he was the only one not to have been born in Scotland.  His mother had been visiting friends in Wolverhampton when she went into labour.  This biographical detail was greeted with nods of sympathy – poor Robbie’s secret shame!

Angus was in his stride and he spoke movingly about the people that were closest to Robbie’s heart… his wife; his sons and the Scottish rugby team – not necessarily in that order.  He told us about some of his favourite things – the bagpipes; single malt whisky and Midsomer Murders.

The tribute was wonderful – affectionate with just the right amount of humour.  Perhaps most importantly of all, it wasn’t too long.  He left his audience wanting more.

He ended by telling another joke.  Whilst this is not often a good idea at a funeral, Angus had judged the mood of the mourners well.  It was greeted with laughter and applause.

‘Old Dougie was on his death-bed.  His devoted wife Janet sat at his side and asked, “Anything I can get you, Dougie?”

No reply.

“Have ye no’ a last wish, Dougie?”

His voice weak and frail, he finally said, “Just a wee bit of boiled ham.”

“Och, man,” said Janet. “Ye ken fine that’s for the funeral.”

As everyone was applauding, I noticed that Angus was retrieving something from behind the lectern – it was a bottle of Scotch.  Robbie’s favourite Glenfiddich.  He poured himself a generous measure and, standing in front of the coffin, he downed it in one and bowed his head.  Another round of applause.

As the curtains closed, we sang Flower of Scotland.

There wasn’t a dry eye.

Posted by Lyra Mollington

I had been determined to talk to my family about my funeral, but as Easter Sunday progressed it was becoming increasingly clear that there wasn’t going to be a suitable lull in the conversation. Our family, especially the grandchildren, are talkers. They certainly don’t take after Grandpa. Mr Mollington has to be gently coaxed into revealing his innermost thoughts – and his surface thoughts. And I’m not terribly fond of coaxing, gently or otherwise.

However, I made a discovery. I have more in common with my death-metal grandson, Sebastian, (Baz to his friends) than I realised. When he’s not listening to bands like The Soulless or training for his next kick-boxing fight (or Muay Thai as he calls it) he’s thinking of other ways to torment his mum and dad. Which it transpires is extremely easy. He’s also a landscape gardener which is not what they had in mind when he did a degree in accountancy.

His mum (my daughter Jamie) was talking about the commercialisation of Easter and saying, ‘It’s Christmas all over again.’ I was just about to comment that her theology was slightly muddled when Seb piped up that the true meaning of Easter (‘and for that matter Christmas’) was to be found in its pagan roots. Indeed, by eating chocolate eggs and rabbits (rather a lot I noticed) he declared he was celebrating the spring festival as it was meant to be celebrated. He said all this in a quite brilliant accent that I can only describe as a variant of Cockney. The words ‘innit?’ and ‘know-what-I-mean?’ featured strongly. Again not at all what his mum and dad had in mind when they paid for him to be privately educated.

A lively discussion followed about paganism; ‘keeping it real’; and how his parents’ generation (‘no disrespect’) have messed up the planet. I listened.

You see, I had realised something extremely important. My children, Jamie and Alex, aren’t the ones I should be talking to about my funeral – it’s Seb, my grandson. In fact I think all the grandchildren are much more comfortable talking about death than their parents.

The following day, I phoned him to ask what he thought about Grandma Lyra being buried in the woods. The jokey accent returned and he exclaimed, ‘Are you for real Grandma? That’s well sick!’ Which he assured me is ‘excellent’. To begin with I found his enthusiasm slightly unsettling but he is such a lovely boy with a heart of gold.

Later that day, he popped round and by the end of our little chat all thoughts of being cremated had gone right out of my head. I am going to be buried – ‘pagan-stylie’. And defo no mdf coffin – instead I will have a burial shroud made from wool. (As he pointed out, I am very fond of my woollen cardies.) All the grandchildren will carry me. If they can’t handle it, then he and his mates will! No probs. And no double-depth grave.

But there is one thing I had to promise him. Any further research about funerals would be for fun. From now on it was to be Grandma’s unusual hobby. My own funeral arrangements were done and dusted.

I can relax – I will be safe in the hands of the people I love most in the world. As Seb pointed out, ‘Grandma, in the words of Metallica, nothing else matters.’

It’s one step forward and two steps back as far as planning my own funeral is concerned.  I keep getting distracted.  However, I have (almost definitely) decided that I want to be cremated. 

So, it’s cremation; no embalming; and no viewings.  And a thorough medical examination to ensure that I am completely dead and not in a coma.  That leaves the relatively simple decision of what’s to be done with the ashes. 

One thing I most certainly do not want is to be placed in any kind of permanent receptacle, particularly not on someone’s mantelpiece.  Disturbingly, Daisy (who is now fully recovered from that mishap with her over-sized slippers) has several urns adorning her living room.  Each to their own, but there is something unsettling about treasuring mortal remains however attractively displayed.

Nor am I keen on those cupboards they have in the memorial ‘Everlasting Peace’ section of our local cemetery.  Interestingly, they’re known as sanctums thus creating the illusion that they are forever untouched.  Last summer, after my friend Jean’s cremation, her family arranged an informal gathering around the sanctum to ‘lay her to rest’.  The door was opened and…there was George!  I had forgotten he would be in there. 

Everyone nodded as if to say, ‘How lovely!  Reunited at last.’  As I bowed my head, in what I hoped looked like solemn reflection, I was thinking, ‘Together again for eternity (or for as long as the lease lasts) in a little cupboard.’ 

I then imagined myself grabbing Jean’s jar (I never much cared for George) running to the nearest tree and scattering her remains with gay abandon.  Needless to say, decorum, good manners and a stiff knee prevailed.  A sharp look from Daisy told me that she knew what I had been thinking.

I am going to tell my children that I’d like to be scattered.  I’ll add it to my wish list.  In fact the more I think about it, the more I’m enjoying the idea of Jamie and Alex walking into the woods at dawn (yes, I’ll specify first light) and scattering me to the cold and bitter wind. 

This noble scene is slightly marred by visions of them having to avoid any dogs being walked at that time in the morning, and of them struggling to unscrew the lid of my plastic jar (no point in wasting money on a scattering tube, or God forbid, an ornate urn).  I’m also fairly sure they would forget to check the wind direction.  Neither of them is very practical.   

The main advantage of being strewn in a random area of woodland, is that there’s then no place they may feel duty bound to visit on Mother’s day, or any other day when they should be spending time with their offspring or enjoying themselves.

It’s Mr Mollington who is beginning to cause concern.  Indeed, I’m rather worried that his plans may scupper my plans.  The other day he mentioned that he was going to be buried – he even started talking knowledgeably about double depth graves.  I shudder at the thought.  And how can we possibly agree on a suitable engraving for the memorial headstone?  Not to mention the fresh flowers each week. 

I find myself in agreement with Joyce Grenfell on this.  ‘Break not a flower nor inscribe a stone.’ However, I will ask for one flower to be broken.  All I need is a simple, inexpensive coffin (one that burns at the optimum rate) topped with a single rose; a lid that can be removed from the inside (just in case); and a plain cardboard container for the ashes.

Now for the funeral ceremony…

Posted by Lyra Mollington
I arrived at my local crematorium armed with an airtight box and lots of questions. The box was full of cupcakes and the questions were from family and friends – the random assortment one might expect from people who don’t usually think about death or funerals, let alone talk about the process of cremation.

Posted by Lyra Mollington

I’ve been rumbled. 

My grandson let it slip that I’m writing for the Good Funeral Guide.  My sister Myra has just phoned me – and she seems to have forgotten that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.  

M:       Congratulations on your new hobby.  What on earth possessed you to write about funerals? 

After returning from Trevor’s after-party, I persuaded Myra to come in for a cup of tea.  I felt the urge for some reminiscing.  I retrieved a large shoe box from the study – mother’s photographs. 

Mum died in 1979 – she was 65.  Sadly, back then, when it came to funerals, choice was not a word in common use.  You took what you were given. 

We were given an Anglican priest who mumbled. 

Posted by Lyra Mollington

We were both in sombre mood as we travelled back along the M4 in Myra’s bright yellow Honda Jazz. 

We’d had a slight tiff as we viewed the flowers after Trevor’s funeral.  Whilst I was keen to go back to the house for light refreshments, Myra was going on about the long drive home.  We couldn’t even agree on whether it should be called a reception, a wake or an after-party.  I’m fairly sure that Trevor’s body would have to be there for it to qualify as a wake. 

I digress.  Marjorie had put on the most marvellous spread of sandwiches and cakes.  It seemed to lift her spirits to see us all tucking in.  After circulating for a few minutes, I discovered the identity of the miscreant with the inappropriate ring tone – one of Trevor’s drinking pals.  Ring-tone Man assured me that Trevor would have “loved it”.  And that he was “all forgive and forget”.  I began to warm to Trevor’s friend, Andrew.  However, the distinct smell of alcohol was rather a mystery at one o’clock in the afternoon. 

Marjorie invited me to write in the remembrance book.  There were quite a few R.I.P.s together with, only the good die young/ miss you forever/we’ll never forget you.  And the baffling “Your (sic) a real ledge mate!”  Andrew had written, “Anything to get out of buying a round you tight bugger! Mine’s a double! LOL!” 

However, I put away my disapproving face –  these were the people who had cared about Trevor and they thought a great deal of him.  I glanced across at a room full of smiling faces and quickly dismissed my original idea of writing something in Latin.

As I tried to think of some mots justes, I looked at the photographs that were on display.  I spotted an old black and white one taken of all the cousins on my mother’s side of the family.  We were in height order: me, the eldest, at the back.  And right at the front, there was little Trevor – with his mop of blond hair and his huge lop-sided grin; not a care in the world.  Myra was right – it was going to be a long drive home.

“He thought the world of you two you know.”  It was Andrew.  Apparently, Trevor was proud of his cousins who went to the grammar school.  And although we were “a bit posh” we were “up for a laugh”.

I wrote, “You will always be our beautiful golden-haired boy with the cheeky smile.  You gave us fun and laughter.  Thank you Trevor.  Per aspera ad astra.”

Posted by Lyra Mollington

On the day of cousin Trevor’s funeral, I woke up in a cold sweat. I’d had the most awful nightmare. I dreamt that all the mourners had been instructed to wear novelty slippers – the bigger and furrier the better. If that wasn’t bad enough, there were shaven-headed monks in saffron robes at the doors of the crematorium inspecting us. I was beginning to panic – were my gorilla slippers furry enough?

As my sister Myra and I drove along the M4, I thought it best not to mention my dream. As planned, we arrived in plenty of time for a cup of coffee and a Bath bun at the garden centre next door. Never attend a funeral on an empty stomach – grumbling tummies are not what the grieving widow wishes to hear.

Nor does she wish to hear the raucous ring-tone of a mobile phone. Barbara, the lady leading the ceremony, had barely welcomed us when, ‘Who let the dogs out?’ assaulted our ears.

The last time Myra and I had seen Trevor was at his father’s funeral twelve years ago, so the eulogy was a useful way of catching up on his latest news. We had to read between the lines of course. The word ‘alcoholic’ was never mentioned. Instead, we were told that he enjoyed socialising with his friends at his local, The Full Moon.

As the ceremony continued, I realised that in my preparations for the funeral, I hadn’t even considered that this might be a sad occasion. After all, Trevor was a Jack-the-lad and a happy-go-lucky sort .

Then we were told how his wife Marjorie had barely started researching Buddhist funerals on the internet when she discovered a note. Barbara read it out:

Dear Marj,

No fuss. Keep it simple and don’t spend too much. Treat yourself to a holiday. As the curtains close, The Sound of Silence – Simon & Garfunkel. Be happy my darling.

All my love,

Trevor

P.S. “When you are born, you cry, and the world rejoices. When you die, you rejoice, and the world cries.” (Ancient Buddhist saying)

Trevor – wherever you are, I hope you are rejoicing.