Great Uncle Fred’s Funeral
The kind of story I’m going to tell you today is known as a ‘Shaggy Dog Story’. This kind of story has rules. It should be plausible. It should be humorous. It must end with a moral. The moral should be phrased as a pun.
My story is a bit overly long. It is more a “settle back & get to know the people” kind of story. Now to tell you about the people in this story, I need to tell you about my mother’s family. They were basically farm folk. Their families had come from the old country, and they settled in central Wisconsin. All of them did fairly well, especially Great-Uncle Fred.
He was basically a gentleman farmer. He had more land than he could use, and he was a hard worker. He was also blessed with very fertile land, and usually raised more food than he could use. When folk in the county were in need, many were a time he could help those folk.
Most of the family had similar luck. Each of the kin raised families, some rather large. Even with such large farms, some of the clan found time to form a small band. Usually every Saturday & Sunday, they’d travel to several music halls and play dance tunes. Mostly Polka and Shottish.
There was Grandmother Violet on the piano; Uncle Hollis on the Ocarina; and of course Great-Uncle Fred on his violin. Other family members joined when farm chores allowed. The band never got paid money. How they usually got paid, was with a sandwich and a beer. Each member of the band got the same payment. While this may not seem like a lot now, you’ve got to remember the band hit about four bars in one night. Four (quart-sized) beers and four sandwiches in one night were pretty good eating.
When I was young I got to come along on those nights out. Now I’m no expert, but I gotta say, in my personal opinion, that every single song they played sounded just like every other. I swear they would play the same song, over and over again.
That was, until the middle of the night, after the band had hit three or four bars. You could first see it with Great-Uncle Fred. Now, in real life, Fred never really stood up straight. Always he was a little bent over. If he’d been an older woman, I’d say he had a Dowager’s Hump.
Every weekend, he’d start out the night reading music from a music stand. Then after a couple beers, he was too bent over and he’d read the music off the floor. After about four bars, he’d just wing the songs. These were, *ahem*, not your standard dance song. He had a repartee of close to a hundred humorous story songs. Some were risqué, but all were funny.
Just to give credit where credit is due, this story I’m telling you now, was inspired by one of his songs. I have heard it on one of Great-Uncle Fred’s old Victrola 78 rpm records. And I swear that Great-Uncle Fred wrote his own will, based entirely on this song.
Now, as we know from the title of this story, the time finally came. Great-Uncle Fred would have wanted me to say that he had been “shot by a jealous husband”. But no, he passed away quietly in his sleep, at the age of 103.
Both Uncle Hollis and Grandmother Violet knew of Great-Uncle Fred’s will. So after making arrangements with Mr. Boston at the funeral parlor, we all made a beeline for Great-Uncle Fred’s farm.
Much of the will was rather ordinary. Except when it came to the specific arrangements for Great-Uncle Fred’s funeral. The first item in his will was that Bob McLane should be paid in advance. Now see, Bob was basically the town handyman. This meant he was also the town gravedigger. And that is what Great-Uncle Fred was paying for: “A nice, roomy grave”.
But, no one had ever before paid Bob ahead of time - - he simply liked his drink a little too much. All feared he would just use the money on booze, and never dig the grave. But, Great-Uncle Fred’s will had said: “Pay in advance”. Not only that, he had stored two bottles of Mogen David 20/20 in the basement for just such an occasion.
Bob had never before been paid in booze. But he was very grateful for Great-Uncle Fred’s trust. Bob did not even open the two bottles. He stuck one in each hip pocket, and started digging. He dug with all the grace, power, and fury, of a steam shovel. Clods of dirt were getting stuck in the trees. We could tell that when he was done, it would be “A nice, roomy grave”. Not only could we bury Great-Uncle Fred and his casket -- but also Great-Uncle Fred’s Olds Delta 88.
Since we were assured that the grave would be there at the funeral, we returned to Great-Uncle Fred’s farm to read the rest of the will. The next provision was that Great-Uncle Fred wanted an old-fashioned, all-night-long, “sitting up with the dead.”
This is much more a Southern custom than what happens in the North. What it means is, the casket bearing the departed is set inside the home of the departed. Not in some antiseptic funeral parlor, but directly in the living room. Then the surviving relatives maintain a vigil over the deceased until the next day when the funeral proper happens.
Well that meant we had quite some work to do. We decided to put the coffin in the big bay window for a nice view. We went to the living room; removed the couch; pulled the television out of the bay window; got about six hay bales from the barn; stacked them in the bay window; covered them with the window curtains; got every chair we could find in the house; and we made a semblance of something like a funeral home inside Great-Uncle Fred’s living room.
Already as soon as we had finished, Mr. Boston drove up in his hearse. We saw through the windows in the back of the hearse that Great-Uncle Fred had chosen a beautiful, solid Walnut coffin for himself.
Unfortunately, Great-Uncle Fred was not in the coffin.
He was sitting up front, in the passenger seat of the hearse. He was even wearing his seat belt.
“Well, now that’s different”, observed Uncle Hollis.
I was about to make my own observation, in the way that any nine-year-old boy might. Before I could do so, Uncle Hollis stepped real hard on my foot. He then quietly gave me the most important advice I had ever received in my life.
He reminded me that some day, I too, would die. And it would probably be someone in the Boston family, who would prepare me for viewing at my funeral. It would be very likely they would remember any smart-ass remark I might say, today. Uncle Hollis’ advice was this: “Don’t piss off someone, who might one day, be messing around with your insides.”
I decided to keep my mouth shut.
Before anyone, either young and foolish, or old and wise, could ask any other questions, Mr. Boston gave us the “Hairy Eyeball”. You know, that “Don’t mess with me” look. He ordered us to get the coffin into the house. We complied. Mr. Boston carried Great-Uncle Fred inside. He then (very reverently, I must say) placed Great-Uncle Fred into his coffin.
And then, we all understood why Great-Uncle Fred had been in the passenger seat. Do you remember I mentioned that Great-Uncle Fred had, like, a Dowager’s Hump?
Great-Uncle Fred wouldn’t lay flat!
He just sat upright, looking puzzled.
Or at least, looking as puzzled as someone can - - with their eyes closed.
“Well, now that’s different”, observed Uncle Hollis, “We’ll need some tools to straighten him out.”
Fortunately, I had played in almost every outbuilding in Great-Uncle Fred’s farm. Uncle Hollis set me the task of getting the tools. I remembered where Great-Uncle Fred kept some bailing wire. Uncle Hollis also had me get a brace and bit (an old-fashioned hand drill).
We drilled a small hole in the far side of the coffin. Then we wrapped the bailing wire just under Great-Uncle Fred’s armpits. We fished the bailing wire through the small hole. Then we pulled hard on the wire, to bring Great-Uncle Fred horizontal. Then we wrapped the wire around that connection, where the television antenna comes into the house. And there he was, laid out flat as pretty as you please. We were done - - and not a moment too soon.
Almost immediately, we had more people in Great-Uncle Fred’s house than would fit. As I mentioned before, Great-Uncle Fred was a very generous man. No one in the county escaped his attention. And many more outside of the county knew him as a friend. What happened was this: as each neighbor heard of Great-Uncle Fred’s passing; they dropped whatever work they were doing; and they immediately came straight to his home, to pay their last respects.
Well, not quite straight. They told all of their neighbors first. Then their neighbors would tell their neighbors, and so on. Word spread like a wildfire. That’s one of the reasons Great-Uncle Fred had required an all-night “sitting up with the dead”. He would be having visitors all night.
Me, being the youngest, was put to work in the kitchen to come up with snacks for the crowd. That is when I found out another reason for a “sitting up with the dead.” It was to get rid of leftovers. I mean Great-Uncle Fred wasn’t going to eat anything left over in the refrigerator.
I discovered that you can put practically anything between two slices of bread; cut them into 16 squares; put toothpicks in them; and now they are snacks. Tuna, bacon, anything -- heck even peanut butter & jelly works. Two slices of bread and some toothpicks -- that’s a snack. And it uses up everything in the refrigerator.
Events went fairly smoothly. Even after it started to rain. Even after it started to thunder & lightning. Eventually it was a full downpour. People kept coming. Great-Uncle Fred was a very well known man. All sorts of folk came to pay their respects.
It was later in the evening, after the sun went down, that we met the most unexpected guest of all. We opened the front door, to see Uncle Theron. Now we never expected Uncle Theron to show up, since he lived in California. And since we were in central Wisconsin, him showing up on the doorstep was “a bit different”.
To give you a little bit of background about Uncle Theron. At that time, he worked for the Internal Revenue Service. He was pretty high up on the totem pole, so to speak. He supervised all of the I.R.S. offices west of the Rockies: California, Oregon, and Washington. He was important enough, that he got an average of three death threats a day. With his kind of job, Uncle Theron tended to take a wider view of any situation.
Now it happened that on the day Great-Uncle Fred passed, Uncle Theron was traveling to Washington DC. He was supposed to testify before one of those Congressional hearings that government folk are so fond of. He was on a layover between flights in Milwaukee when he heard of the passing of Great-Uncle Fred. This tells you of how quickly news of his passing spread. Great-Uncle Fred lived more than two hundred fifty miles from Milwaukee -- and yet Uncle Theron heard of it, that day.
Uncle Theron decided to take a later flight; rented a car; and drove up to pay his respects. The relatives all had to get the story from Uncle Theron, which took awhile. Then Uncle Theron stepped up to pay his last respects.
Now, I’m no expert, but I gotta say, in my personal opinion, that I feel God Himself doesn’t like the I.R.S. For when Uncle Theron stepped up to that coffin, a bolt of lighting that could be seen across the state, split the Heavens. Electric power was cut across several counties.
That bolt of lightning almost made a direct hit. It struck the television antenna above Great-Uncle Fred’s house.
It travelled down the antenna wire.
It entered the house.
It melted the bailing wire holding Great-Uncle Fred down.
And just as the flash of lightning faded:
Uncle Theron decided to take a wider view of the situation, and he stepped back.
Right . . .
On . . .
the cat.
Now, I’m no expert, but I gotta say, in my personal opinion, that
The noise . . .
that came out of that animal . . .
at THAT particular instant . . .
Uncle Theron decided to take a much wider view of the situation. And he decided to leave the house by the living room door.
Now, I’m no expert, but I gotta say, in my personal opinion, that I never would have thought that anyone could go through a two-inch thick, solid Oak door;
Without . . .
first . . .
opening it . . .
Now, you have to remember that I was in the kitchen at the time. I was trying to figure out how to make a snack out of spaghetti. The meatballs had been easy. Just stick toothpicks in them. But, what to do with the spaghetti? Hummh?
Anyway, I saw none of what went on in the living room. All I knew was what I heard. There was lightning. The power went out. There was a cannonade of thunder, which could be heard in parts of three states: Texas, Alaska and Maine. Followed by a sound that can only be described as a bat coming straight out of Hell. And then the sound of smashing and flindering wood.
Mind you, if I had just been but one year older, I would have been more mature. I never would have gone into that living room to see what was up.
And in the very next flash of lighting, I saw Great-Uncle Fred.
Looking puzzled.
With his hand out, wanting a snack.
*I* decided to take a wider view of the situation.
And I decided to leave the house by the kitchen door. You see that was just a screen door. I didn’t open that, neither. Yes sir, for the next week, I looked like I fell asleep, face first, on a tennis racket.
And in the very next flash of lightning, I was reminded again just how generous a man Great-Uncle Fred was. You see Great-Uncle Fred had owned a decent amount of land. At one time, Great-Uncle Fred had donated some of his land to the church. It wasn’t much, so the church decided to make that parcel of land into a cemetery. That parcel of land abutted Great-Uncle Fred’s house.
As soon as I left the kitchen, I saw what had become of that parcel of land.
I decided to take a much wider view of the situation.
California seemed good.
I started to run through that cemetery toward the road. It wasn’t easy going, as I could only run when the lightning gave me some light. And there were trees with low branches snatching at my clothes. And there were gravestones I had to jump over. Even so, I was making pretty good time.
Until . . .
after I Jumped over one particularly large tombstone . .
I found, on the other side . . .
Great-Uncle Fred’s grave.
Bob McLane had been very busy all night. It was indeed, “A nice, roomy grave”. Not only could we bury Great-Uncle Fred and his casket -- but also Great-Uncle Fred’s Olds Delta 88. And a Sherman Tank. Sideways.
Or . . . on top of one another. Bob McLane had not stopped at the regulation six feet. No, this grave was eleven feet deep, if it was an inch. And the rain hadn’t quit. The sides of the grave were as slick as Jello. I couldn’t get out! It was cold, I was wet. And in my state of mind, I never gave one minute’s thought about what had happened to Bob McLane.
You see, when he finished, he couldn’t get out either. And he was wet. And he was cold. But he had something I did not: Two bottles of the tastiest anti-freeze known to man. He simply pulled out both bottles of Mad Dog 20/20; sucked them both empty; and laid down right there in the bottom of the grave, to sleep it off. Someone would find him in the morning.
Mind you, I knew none of this.
Until . . .
I heard . . .
From beneath Great-Uncle Fred’s grave . . .
“Might as well stay down here for the night.
You ain’t gonna get out without help.”
And now, for the moral of the story. Remember, it has to be humorous; it has to be a pun. Have you figured it out already?
“There ain’t no need to ‘Sit up with the dead’ . . .
For the dead can sit up by themselves.”
