My funniest Christmas story happened when I was 17. It involved a funeral, a boy about eight years old, and a morbidly obese Santa. I got into some serious trouble with my dad that day.
Funerals on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day (or most holidays) are rare, but they do happen sometimes. As many of you know, I grew up a funeral home kid, which often meant being put to work in support of the family business. That year we had a funeral scheduled on Christmas Eve - it was a large one, with a lot of attendees, starting with a visitation at the funeral home in the morning, moving to a church service for the funeral, then to the cemetery for burial. It had more than the usual number of working parts to it, but we had a disproportionate number of staff available to take care of all the details since many were off for the Christmas holiday. That meant using me, and even my mom, to take care of more than my usual funeral duties.
Normally my duties (starting around age 10, for which I was rarely paid anything) were taking care of tasks that a kid can’t possibly screw up, with incremental increases in responsibility as I got older. That usually meant being a step-and-fetch girl, gathering and loading flowers, being a memorial leaflet passer-outer, a door opener, and being available to give directions to the restrooms. For this service I had all of those duties, PLUS one that excited me: I was tapped to drive the hearse for the first time.
Those who know me know if I like to drive about anything with wheels or tracks: a dually, a backhoe, Bobcat, you name it. I’d had my unrestricted license for a couple months, so my funeral home tasks included running errands with the office car, a Ford Focus. I did a lot of driving, but I hadn’t yet been allowed to drive any of the premium vehicles: the shiny limousines (used for family cars), large SUVs (war wagons, as I call them), and hearses. Scooting around in a Focus was one thing, but hitting the road in a shiny Cadillac was another. Of all the cars, driving the hearse was, for me, a really big deal. Yes, there was taking on the responsibility for the safe transport of a loved one’s remains. But through my 17 year old eyes, it was more about driving in style. The hearse driver is the leader of the pack, like being the pace car at the Indy 500. Normally I would have disliked having to work Christmas Eve, but this was a milestone for me – increased responsibility. And heated seats to keep my butt warm, there was that too.
I had dressed especially nice, and even gone out to the garage to inspect the hearse and make sure there were no smudges. When the visitation was over and we placed the casketed remains in the hearse, the only non-family staff member working that funeral came up and wanted me to hand over the keys. He said he was going to drive, then pointed at the flower car and told me I could drive that one. Not a chance I told him, and if he was going to insist we would end up fighting in parking lot. No cock knocker on earth was going to deny me my moment. Finally, he backed down and drove the flower car. We left the lot with a police car escorting the procession. When we reached the edge of the city limits, the escort dropped off, so I lit it up and continued to the country church. I was queen of the road, leading a procession about a mile long behind me, watching cars pull over and give us the road as we motored on. To oncoming traffic, it must have looked like an aircraft coming in on final approach. When we arrived at the church, I got out to get the casket ready for the casket bearers, who pulled the casket out and got it onto a church truck.
The name of the church (it is no longer there) was Fire Baptized Holiness Church. The name alone should tell you it was going to be a spirited service. The church had experienced major roof damage from a tornado, so all the flooring and seats had been torn out. There were a few folding chairs up front, but the majority of the seating consisted of 2”x12” boards stretched between cinder blocks. Once the casket was in place up front and the family was seated, it was time for funeral home staff to fade out of sight until the service was over.
One unwritten but sacred rule of funeral home staff is to be there when needed, and to be out of the way (but close by) the rest of the time. Funerals and visitations are about family and friends, and honoring the deceased. We’re facilitators. I took up a position in the lobby. My dad walked by me, but decided to wait outside. I know he was watching me to see if I was going to screw something up; since he hadn’t said anything critical, I figured no news was good news, so I was standing proud. I had this. I had arrived. I thought I was hot s**t.
The service was upbeat. The attendees were definitely in high spirits “making the rafters ring.” The deceased had lived a long, prosperous life so the atmosphere was positive and definitely spiritual, with folks praising the Lord at the top of their lungs. Then a little boy about eight years old walked out into the lobby with his hands covering his face. It was about to go downhill from there.
The boy stood by the inner door off to one side. He kept his face covered, and his shoulders were shaking. At first I thought he had been overwhelmed with emotion and was crying. That would not be at all unusual. But when he moved his hands from his face, I could see he wasn’t crying – he was laughing. When he made eye contact with me, I kept a straight face and gently shook my head. How inappropriate, I thought, but the kid kept giggling and snorting. He gestured for me to come over to him, so I walked over to see what was going on.
The boy pointed for me to look inside, so I did and there it was, one of the funniest sights I’d ever seen: a morbidly obese man (he easily weighed 500 pounds) dressed in a Santa suit, sitting near the back of the church on a 2”x12” board between two stacks of cinder blocks. As if that sight wasn’t enough, he was jumping up pumping his fist in air and yelling “hallelujah” and “praise the Lord.” Whenever he fell back to the “seat,” the board bowed almost all the way to the slab floor. Then he would spring back up again, and yell more praise. I started to laugh, but managed to suppress it. It was the funniest sight I’d ever seen at a funeral. Whenever I got it together, the boy would giggle and snort, which would get me giggling and made me have to cover my face. Finally, the boy went back into the church and I went to the corner of the lobby to settle down. “Come on, Saoirse, get your poop in a group” I told myself. After a few deep breaths, I was back to normal. That didn’t last long.
When the service was over, I rolled the casket out to the lobby for the casket bearers to do their task of getting it back to the hearse for the last ride to the cemetery. As the guests left the church, out came morbidly obese Santa followed by the boy, who made eye contact with me and started jumping up and down. I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing. The boy’s mom wasn’t very happy with him either, I could see she was giving him a talking to. As I was helping guide the casket onto the carrier, I looked up and made eye contact with the boy again. He smiled and winked at me, which started me giggling. My dad didn’t know what was going on, but from the stink eye he was giving me clearly he wasn’t happy with my behavior. It was all I could do to get it back together, but I finally did.
For whatever reason, enormously fat Santa didn’t attend the final graveside service, but the boy did, and he was constantly in my eyeline. If we made eye contact, one or both of us would have to suppress laughter. The only way I was going to keep it together was to look anywhere where the kid wasn’t. I kept it together through the rest of the service, and went back to the hearse for the drive back to the funeral home. Once I started the engine, the boy walked up to the hearse and motioned for me to put the window down so I did. He leaned in, kissed me on the cheek, then whispered in my ear: “Boing boing boing boing.” And that’s when I lost it completely and started laughing uncontrollably. Some of the funeral party noticed me and just smiled, but my dad was not at all amused. He shook his finger at me then motioned downward. I got the message, so I rolled the window up and drove away. I was still laughing so hard my sides were starting to hurt.
When I got back to the funeral home, I put the hearse away. I avoided my dad until I got to my grandmother’s for Christmas Eve dinner. My dad isn’t one to raise his voice or yell, he’s the silent type who just gives a death stare. My mom and grandmother were aware my dad was upset with me for some reason. When we sat down for dinner, the eery silence was noticeable. Finally, my grandmother asked what had happened. All my dad did was give me a death stare and shake his head. I apologized, took responsibility for my actions, etc. Then I explained what had happened. As I was telling the story, my mom started smiling then broke into laughter. My grandmother put her head back, chuckled, and then started laughing as well. My dad was so put out with us he got up from the table, took his plate to the kitchen, and ate by himself at the kitchen counter.
I’d had my moment to shine that day and blew it. No matter how many attagirls I got, it only took one “aw shit” to wipe them all out. I was on double secret probation with my dad for a couple years after that, and got relegated to less public duties, but it wouldn’t be the only time I ended up laughing at a funeral either.
Merry Christmas :-)
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