Okay, this is an essay I wrote for my Composition class. I was a little surprised by the positive response it got from my classmates and prof, regarding the quality of the writing at least, if not the subject matter. Nothing like a depressing essay to start off the school day, right?
Since there are several good writers on my Yahoo! friends list, I thought I'd ask what you guys think. Warning: It is, or can be, rather depressing. Feel free to skip it. So without further ado...
It often seems my life could be measured in funerals. True, most people use birthdays to gauge the passage of time. Some move a lot and so tie milestones to where they were living. Many children date important events in their lives by their grade in school at the time. However, the most prominent meter, to me, is death.
The first funeral I remember took place when I was six. It wasn't the first I had attended, of course; we were burying the last of my grandparents. Vague confusion shrouds those events, becoming my most indelible memory of that time. There was a lot of "playing quietly" on the floor of various rooms: a hospital waiting room; an elderly neighbor's living room; a quiet, dim office; more waiting rooms. Seemingly pointless meanderings occupied more of our time. The tradition of "near family" marching in and out of the chapel three times in one service may never make any sense to me. Surely there was a floral arrangement "from the grandchildren," but I – the oldest grandchild – don't even recall flowers.
The next major funeral in my life occurred ten years later, upon the death of my father. Any lingering questions or puzzles were solved on this round, as I was one of the major planners of this event – no playing quietly this time. Many waiting rooms still held me captive at times, but they weren't so anonymous. I always knew exactly where I was, and why I was there. Escape was also possible, though typically the only place to which I could escape was another room in the hospital. Several different hospitals became familiar places, as death took much longer to arrive this time, loitering elsewhere for years before deigning to make an appearance.
Once at the funeral home, no waiting occurred at all. The funeral director, spray-starched and obsequious, attended to us immediately. We toured the public rooms of the building, discussing options along the way. Would the red room be best, or perhaps the gold? Silly questions, bereft of any deeper meaning. Obituaries were planned and placed, although I believe the director was disappointed in our choices. A casket was chosen. Hymns were discussed, a quiet irony, as my father never sang. Flowers were planned, although vegetables might have been more appropriate, given his preferences in gardening.
Then it was onward to the planning of the service itself, the order and logistics. Pointless peregrinations were promptly prohibited; no wandering about for this family. We all know the casket is going to be closed. Frankly, it would be a bit more disturbing if it was buried open! Our firmness on this point occasioned more discreet disapproval from the funeral director. Females are supposed to leave the chapel, lest they faint at the sight of the lid shutting. Strong-minded, strong-willed, strong-stomached women were obviously not covered in his Funeral Directors’ Manual. Likewise, our decision to use our own car in the procession shocked him. No limo? How can this be? In the end, this break in tradition was only allowed when we agreed to find a driver who was not part of the immediate family. Again, females must be too distraught to drive.
There have been many more funerals over the years: aunts and uncles who took the place of grandparents in my life; cousins; some friends. None impinged on my life so closely as those detailed above. More are sure to follow, even after I leave school, find a permanent home, stop counting birthdays, and I will continue to date events by them. "Oh, that was the year my grandmother died."
(moved from old blog)
Comments:
Wiz: From a non-writer's perspective, well done. I could see myself at the places you mentioned. A somewhat bewildered child, just doing as she was told. Yet as the adult, taking control of the situation.
No surprise to me on the positive response at school...
Hugs to ya!
Aibrean: Beccaie, it is a very good essay. I particularly liked your "P" alliteration in that one sentence! I find it melancholy, sad even, but it did not depress me. There is much said here, if subtly, about the turnings of Life. If you ever need to expand on it, I think you have several good ways to go with it. I give it a resounding "A!" :-)
Great job!
Hugs too!
lisabelle
Rayna: Oh Becc....I thought it was just wonderful, in a bittersweet way...I love to read about self discovery and self proclomation. You measure by funerals....I think it's a very sensitive way to look at things, and it is very much the Mini-Moot Mobile driver that I know...you view the passage of time with the passage of souls, which is an insight into the level of caring you have for the people around you. Delightfully well written, wonderful flow, you should be proud and you better get a good grade!
Me: Thanks for the input guys (gals?). Sorry it's taken me so long to respond. I got the paper back today, and I did get an A. :D Now if I can just do that well on the final... I took it this morning, but I don't have a good feel for how I did on it. Hate that. But the grades will be posted on Thursday, so there's not _too_ much waiting.
Frink: Not surprised you got an 'A' on this, Beccaie! Your description of the funeral director was spot on. Brought back a similar time in my life -- great job!
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