A Part of Life
I went to a funeral yesterday. A modern, twenty-first century funeral that has taken us one step further away from our past and our acceptance of death as a part of life. It used to be so different. Granted that I'm glad some things have changed, it still seems we're trying to negate death by pushing it out of our lives. Now, when someone dies, the undertakers are called. They come, collect the body and take it to the funeral home. The family simply has to get dressed and follow. At the funeral home they are assigned a viewing room. It's a large room, with sofas and straight chairs lining the walls. In one corner there is an area, walled off and with plate glass, behind which the coffin is arranged along with the flowers. It's a cold room, a refrigerator, really, which helps keep the deceased decent during the two days of the viewing until the funeral. No one can touch the body, except the immediate family when everything is first set up and immediately before the trip to the church. In Spain it is normal to bury someone the day after they die. In fact, I think it's the law for public health reasons. Permission is rarely given to extend the viewing one more day; it has to be a pressing reason.
It used to be very different. One year when I was a teenager I was here on vacation by myself, staying with cousins. Another cousin, one of my mother's and older than her, had died. I called home with the news and my mother said I would have to go to the funeral. One of the cousins I was staying with accompanied me to a strange house with strange people who happened to be family.
We walked to the house of mourning early in the afternoon, about two kilometers away. It was a hot summer's day, but a breeze was still blowing. At that time the only funeral homes were in the cities, and all the viewings were done at home. So we arrived at the family house, which was extremely old, with the kitchen and stables on the bottom floor and everything else upstairs. We climbed the narrow stairs and went into what was normally a tiny dining room. There was the coffin with the deceased. Before the undertakers had come with the coffin, the women of the house (with some help from some neighbors) had already washed and dressed the body. The undertakers had simply put it into the coffin and lit the tall candles placed at each corner. The closest mourners sat right next to the coffin, touching the deceased father and husband from time to time. The room was hot and darkened, the windows and shutters closed and lit only with the candles and a dim bulb. Chairs lined the wall where women, mostly dressed in black, sat silently. The men were all outside. My accompanying cousin and I gave the de rigueur kisses to the wife and daughter and went downstairs to join the other visitors and wait for the priest to come.
After the priest had come and gone upstairs to pray for the dead and his family, with everyone crowding the hallway and the stairs to join in the prayer, then the odyssey began. Because there was no hearse. The pallbearers had to carry the coffin the kilometer and a half to the church, the priest and altarboy with the cross preceding them and the mourners in tow. In the hot summer sun. In the 1980's that habit was falling out of use. By then the hearse would show up at the house to take the coffin. And sometimes people would follow walking, other times in their cars and hired buses. But that cousin was still taken to his resting place the old-fashioned way.
Perhaps that's what I remember most, the shuffling along the lanes, cursing the sun and the heat, wishing my mother hadn't said I should go, wishing the cousin who was accompanying me hadn't agreed, wishing I were at the beach. But at that time I didn't consider that I was wearing a cool summer blouse and skirt with no stockings. The wife and daughter, and all the women in black were wearing long-sleeved black blouses, black stockings and black head scarves. Except the daughter, and she was later criticised for going bare-headed. At the funeral yesterday, also on a very warm day, some of the daughters were dressed all in black, but in short sleeves and no head scarves. One had on a black and white blouse, another had a white blouse and thin black summer slacks. A granddaughter had on a black sleeveless summer dress, no stockings. Things have changed.
I remember when my mother died that I had decided not to wear mourning after the funeral. So I decided to wear black and white at the funeral, to show absence of color, of joy, but to feel less hypocritical. It turned out to be a hot June day, so I didn't drape my black jacket over my simple, white sleeveless top. There were people who criticized me for not covering my shoulders with at least short sleeves and for wearing white. Ten years ago people were still in that time-warp of respecting the dead with black and covering up. The women of yesterday won't be criticized for how they dressed as I had been.
I'm glad the viewing is no longer done at home (especially since housecleaning and I don't get along) but the funeral home is too antiseptic. I understand the logic behind the plate glass, but some people feel the need of touching their loved ones continuously as a way of saying goodbye. I understand some people may not want to participate, but others would like to help wash and dress the body of their child, their spouse, their parent, as a way of giving one last service of love. Most of these changes have come about through changes in public health laws. That's understandable, but not always humane.
It used to be very different. One year when I was a teenager I was here on vacation by myself, staying with cousins. Another cousin, one of my mother's and older than her, had died. I called home with the news and my mother said I would have to go to the funeral. One of the cousins I was staying with accompanied me to a strange house with strange people who happened to be family.
We walked to the house of mourning early in the afternoon, about two kilometers away. It was a hot summer's day, but a breeze was still blowing. At that time the only funeral homes were in the cities, and all the viewings were done at home. So we arrived at the family house, which was extremely old, with the kitchen and stables on the bottom floor and everything else upstairs. We climbed the narrow stairs and went into what was normally a tiny dining room. There was the coffin with the deceased. Before the undertakers had come with the coffin, the women of the house (with some help from some neighbors) had already washed and dressed the body. The undertakers had simply put it into the coffin and lit the tall candles placed at each corner. The closest mourners sat right next to the coffin, touching the deceased father and husband from time to time. The room was hot and darkened, the windows and shutters closed and lit only with the candles and a dim bulb. Chairs lined the wall where women, mostly dressed in black, sat silently. The men were all outside. My accompanying cousin and I gave the de rigueur kisses to the wife and daughter and went downstairs to join the other visitors and wait for the priest to come.
After the priest had come and gone upstairs to pray for the dead and his family, with everyone crowding the hallway and the stairs to join in the prayer, then the odyssey began. Because there was no hearse. The pallbearers had to carry the coffin the kilometer and a half to the church, the priest and altarboy with the cross preceding them and the mourners in tow. In the hot summer sun. In the 1980's that habit was falling out of use. By then the hearse would show up at the house to take the coffin. And sometimes people would follow walking, other times in their cars and hired buses. But that cousin was still taken to his resting place the old-fashioned way.
Perhaps that's what I remember most, the shuffling along the lanes, cursing the sun and the heat, wishing my mother hadn't said I should go, wishing the cousin who was accompanying me hadn't agreed, wishing I were at the beach. But at that time I didn't consider that I was wearing a cool summer blouse and skirt with no stockings. The wife and daughter, and all the women in black were wearing long-sleeved black blouses, black stockings and black head scarves. Except the daughter, and she was later criticised for going bare-headed. At the funeral yesterday, also on a very warm day, some of the daughters were dressed all in black, but in short sleeves and no head scarves. One had on a black and white blouse, another had a white blouse and thin black summer slacks. A granddaughter had on a black sleeveless summer dress, no stockings. Things have changed.
I remember when my mother died that I had decided not to wear mourning after the funeral. So I decided to wear black and white at the funeral, to show absence of color, of joy, but to feel less hypocritical. It turned out to be a hot June day, so I didn't drape my black jacket over my simple, white sleeveless top. There were people who criticized me for not covering my shoulders with at least short sleeves and for wearing white. Ten years ago people were still in that time-warp of respecting the dead with black and covering up. The women of yesterday won't be criticized for how they dressed as I had been.
I'm glad the viewing is no longer done at home (especially since housecleaning and I don't get along) but the funeral home is too antiseptic. I understand the logic behind the plate glass, but some people feel the need of touching their loved ones continuously as a way of saying goodbye. I understand some people may not want to participate, but others would like to help wash and dress the body of their child, their spouse, their parent, as a way of giving one last service of love. Most of these changes have come about through changes in public health laws. That's understandable, but not always humane.
There are so many ways to mourn lost ones. What a lovely comparison piece.
ReplyDeleteThank you!
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