posted Mon, 07 Nov 2005
My postman, Lawrence, always stops for a little chat on Saturdays. He’s a great guy, although he really doesn’t need to go through so much effort to deliver all the junk mail that is still sent to my old address around the corner. There’s a reason I didn’t give my new address to the public radio station when I moved four years ago.
But anyway. Lawrence’s grandmother died two weeks ago. The funeral was last Saturday. We have compared notes about the differences between Baptist and Catholic funerals and post-funeral activities. Apparently, there is no beer at Baptist funerals.
I asked him how it went this Saturday.
“Oh, my uncle tried to get into the back of the hearse with the casket,” he said as he shook his head.
“Is that the custom with Southern Baptist funerals?” I asked. I don’t know how things go with black Southern Baptists. Maybe that’s how they’re done. Maybe you ride in the back of the hearse.
“No, no, no. He’s one of the ones who’s feeling guilty because he didn’t do right for her while she was alive. I had to pull him back. I was right there because I was one of the pallbearers.”
I commiserated. “Oh well. Everyone’s got weird relatives. At my dad’s funeral lunch, someone hit on my sister and me. Then that same person hit on us again at my grandmother’s funeral lunch this January!”
Lawrence laughed. “That’s pretty bad!”
I continued. “Think about it. Someone’s gotta claim Jeffrey Dahmer. How would you like to be his relative?”
“I guess my uncle isn’t so bad after all,” Lawrence said.
The end of the line
1 year ago