Southern funeral traditions

July 4, 2020 – Southern funeral traditions

         My next-door neighbor died recently and his funeral was Thursday of this past week.

         Having to verify his wife’s first name for a sympathy card, I jumped on the GIS and checked the tax records. 

         I remember the day his Dad had died in 2000, and I walked across the lawn to his house and Charlie and his brother were there in the kitchen.  Grown men, with tears all around and they were drinking shots.  They even offered me a shot and I politely declined, but I understood their pain, and their trying to dull it with booze. 

         I gave them my condolences, but I never have the right words and expect I never will to ease anyone of the pain of the death of a loved one, and I left.

         My first thought after looking at the tax records and realizing how long ago his Dad had died, only three years after he had built the house and now 17 years later, a second death of the son, the owner.

         All our lives, everything is about life or death and how we handle it as we move up in age.  I know his wife will manage it, she has managed day care centers for years, she is made from strong stuff and she has a huge family to buoy her up.

         But, what struck me more was – WOW, I’ve lived in a neighborhood where the house next door is now on its second deceased owner.  Time marches on, the days and years slip by, as they say, like sand in an hourglass, but that hourglass is really more like a decade-glass.

         Hardly noticeable year in and year out until a death brings you to an abrupt halt to make you sit back and reflect.

         Charlie’s Dad admired the 100 red tulips I had planted on the north side of my house the first year I moved here. He could see them from his windows.  He called out on many occasions to tell me how pretty my flowers were. 

         A few years later, in the middle of the night when the deer came wandering through our subdivision, his car alarm would go off and he using a walker was unable to run out and turn it off.  I’d pull on my robe and slippers and run over at 3:00 a.m. or 4:00 a.m. and get his keys – he’d make it out onto the porch.  I’d turn off his alarm and return his keys.  He was a charming old man.

         As the new owner, Charlie put in a swimming pool and the noise in the summer from his boisterous clan, and pounding loud music often made us retreat from our patio into the house.  While Charlie lived there, lots of traffic zoomed to and from that house over the years.

         Wednesday evening, a car came down the street and hesitated at our driveway, as if to pull in, then slowly moved on.  My husband asked, “Do you know who that is?”

         I immediately said, “Probably someone bringing food to Charlie’s house.”

         “Huh?”

         “You know the gathering with all the family and friends and food, the night before, and then the day of the funeral, like they do here in the south.”

         Earlier that afternoon I had left our subdivision to go grocery shopping and couldn’t help but notice the funeral home sandwich board sign indicating “Thompson’s Funeral Home -Thankyou” at the end of the street.  Ah, yes, Charlie’s funeral is tomorrow I said to myself.

         When I got home I drove down past Charlie’s house to confirm the funeral home had put the “tacky” white fake flower wreath on the front porch to notify those that were not certain which house was the “deceased home”.

         I immediately took down my front door wreath so that I wouldn’t have people coming to my door by mistake, thinking it was the least I could do.

         Later I spoke with my brother Ken and told him about the funeral sign, and taking down my wreath, not sure why it came up in our conversation, but our conversations shift from topic to topic without warning.  My husband calls it “talking in circles”, my Dad used to say that the letters from Mom to me and mine back were “talking in riddles.”

         We got on the topic of the funeral sandwich boards that are placed before the deceased home and then after it to mark for friends and family where they live so that they could visit, along with the tacky white flower spray or wreath on the door or porch.

         “What is that all about?”

         “They do the food thing here, big time. The funeral home thinks they are being helpful pointing out the house to those family and friends that might have forgotten which house it is.”

         Later on during the discussion, I said, “Yeah, makes no sense to me, give the robbers a sign as to which house to break into while the funeral is taking place.”

         We discussed that in great detail. 

        

         “I was told by a southern friend, you have some designated person stay at the house while the funeral is held to safeguard it,” I explained.

         My brother and I shifted topics, and I forgot to tell him that in this area,  basically in the South as a whole, when the funeral procession is taking place with everyone having their car lights on, the oncoming traffic pulls over to the shoulder of the road in respect for the deceased while the entire caravan passes.  That was new to me too, but having been here since 1985, it is now an automatic.

         So, any day, any ordinary day, when there is a funeral in town, and you just happen to be in the oncoming traffic lane and you pull over in respect of someone you don’t even know.  This Southern tradition gives you a moment to reflect on that family’s sadness and on eternity with God, among other things.

        

         In those few moments of respect, you ponder about how you will handle the next death in your family. 

        

         It is a humbling experience, it is a Southern tradition, it is a good thing.

God rest your soul, Charles H. Douglas.