I Know Why the Irish Drink

Before anyone takes offense, let me point out that I've got plenty of Irish ancestors. If I ever write an autobiography, I thought I Know Why the Irish Drink might make a good title--almost like Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings.

Growing up in a small Louisiana town, funerals and the wakes preceding them were social occasions. When he got the newspaper every morning, the first section my grandfather checked was the obituaries. That way, he knew whether he and my grandmother would be going out that night, often accompanied by one or more grandchildren. If someone’s bad news hadn’t made it into the paper by press time, the local radio station would broadcast it at noon.

We would get dressed up and go to the only funeral home in town. It was usually packed with people. The ritual was almost always the same: going up the walk, we’d briefly acknowledge the visitors who were leaving. To the right just inside the main door, we’d stop to sign the guest book. Then we’d walk through the small lobby to the viewing room, pausing only briefly to speak to the other visitors. .

We’d go up to the casket, glance briefly at the deceased, and bow our heads for a minute or two in silent prayer. The caskets were always open—the only time they weren’t was when the manner of death had disfigured the victim. A closed casket usually caused much consternation among the gatherers, and even though they were disappointed that there was no corpse to comment upon, the speculation about how bad the damage must have been was some small consolation to them.

The deceased’s family was usually gathered in the viewing room, planted in a clutch on the front pew facing the coffin. Less immediate family and friends were scattered in the nine or so pews behind the first one, usually whispering together quietly. After the viewing, we’d stop at the front row to offer our sympathies to the family. If the deceased was a relative or close friend of the family, we’d then step into one of the lesser pews and do some time in the viewing room. If not, we’d go back into the lobby to mingle with the throng there. That was the time when my grandfather would catch up with all the gossip in town.

Since most people in town were Catholic, a rosary was usually said at 7:00 p.m. sharp. During the rosary, everyone packed into the viewing room for prayers, which could take up to an hour. My grandfather, wily as he was, always timed his visits so that we didn’t get caught in the rosary-saying. He was born and raised Catholic, but he wasn’t much for going to church, even if he wasn’t actually in a church.

 

I chose to take a very limited part in my mother’s funeral arrangements for several reasons, chiefly because I was freshly WiDeauxed. A close-following second reason is my rather well-known disdain for the whole funeral industry. Neither of my sisters wanted to be scandalized so early in the grief process. My step-sister Lisa, niece Heather and nephew Stephen went along to make all the arrangements.

My job was to pick out the "family spray." I had never heard that term until a few years ago, when my mother-in-law died. Some distant relative, an ancient crone who'd been sitting an almost buzzard-like watch at the deathbed, approached me to offer what I expected would be condolences. She took my hands into her withered old claws, leaned toward me, and rasped, "You do know about the family spray, don't you?"

I guess the dumbfounded expression gave away the fact that I hadn't a clue what she was talking about. "The spray! The flowers that go on the casket! The family has to get it." Neither she nor any of the other family members offered to help pay for it, and she didn’t even make an appearance a the funeral. At any rate, the florist I had used had been quite helpful, so I visited her again.

She showed me her funeral arrangement books, and I picked certain elements from several—semi-rounded shape, lots of frilly greenery, and fairly compact. It had to have lots of yellow roses, my mother’s favorite flower. One red rose would symbolize my step-father, Donald; four white orchids would represent my sisters and step-sister; six ivory stock flowers for the grandchildren; and three yellow tulips for the great-grandchildren (actually two and one on the way).

 

My only other contribution to the plans was to suggest the portrait to be placed next to the closed casket. My mother and I had sat on her patio after my mother-in-law’s funeral and had drawn up our own funeral preparations. Neither of us wanted to leave relatives totally unguided about our wishes. When Jan and I first arrived at the house, Donald pulled out a fairly recent photo of Mama that his sister had found. While it was a good picture, I knew which one Mama really wanted, and suggested it.

It wasn’t a photo, but a charcoal sketch she’d had done long ago during a visit to Jackson Square (in New Orleans). The artist had done a great job, particularly at capturing her eyes. They were the palest blue eyes I’d ever seen, ringed by a border of dark blue. Those almost-translucent blue eyes were quite outstanding in a house of brown eyed children.

On Tuesday at 3:00 p.m., the immediate family arrived at the funeral home. Those who wanted to view the body were taken to the casket. The only ones who elected to view were Julie and Donald. The rest of us sat chatting with an early arrival in a waiting area. Initially, I hadn’t planned to come to the funeral home at all. I thought it would be too difficult being in such a place so soon after losing Bunny. However, some friends had come to the house on Sunday and, together with Jan, had convinced me that I could handle the viewing, at least. One of my oldest friends, my classmate Kelly, promised she would be with me and would take me outside if things got overwhelming.

Julie and Donald joined us after awhile. The funeral home director asked if we wanted to come into the viewing room. After being assured that the lid was shut, we did. I needed to get away from Donald, or distract him, at least. Donald and my mother married when I was 15, and to say I hadn’t taken to the new member of the family easily is an understatement. He was tall—well over six feet—and quite an intimidating figure back in the day.

Over the years we had grown closer, and he was always a rock of practical advice and information. When I was planning to leave my first husband, it was Donald I called for advice, not my parents. “Liz, life is too short to be unhappy. Come home, and we’ll help you any way we can. I’ll talk to your mama.” They had helped me—with a toddler son in tow--get back on my feet and fly from the nest a second time. I had never seen him cry before Saturday, and now his eyes were red-rimmed and his voice shaky. Under normal circumstances, I’d have been the first to his side to try to comfort him, but now it was just too much for me to handle.

“Let me show you the spray!” I chirped, dashing out of the room. By the time I got to the casket, I had calmed down. I explained the symbolism of the different flowers, and he started crying. He thought she would have loved it.

The portrait had been cleaned and stood on an easel, so I admired on it. He commented that it had been done before he knew Mama, and that brought to mind a story I had once heard from my cousin Paul. At my paternal grandmother’s funeral several years ago, Paul caught site of Mama across the room and smiled wistfully. I began to recount the exchange that followed for Donald.

“I said, I think there’s a story there.”

“He said, ‘I was just remembering the time your dad first brought your mother home to meet the family. We thought she…’” I couldn’t finish, and was dangerously close to a breakdown. Julie picked up the story immediately.

“He said she was the prettiest thing they’d ever seen.”

This was what would become a pattern with my sisters, niece and nephew. They were all protective of me and kept me away from several disasters and most of the more irksome visitors. I also took off my glasses—partly for vanity’s sake, but also because it made it more difficult for me to see people’s faces from more than a few feet away. They could be crying themselves silly, but I wouldn’t know it from across the room.

Donald’s younger sister, my Aunt Beverly, came in and greeted us. Her eyes were watery and she was putting me on edge. Just as I was about to get teary, I saw my Aunt Evelyn and Uncle James enter and stop at the book. I quickly abandoned Beverly for her sister, who was well known for her tough exterior.

I went up and hugged her, as she told me how sorry she was for my recent losses. Then she focused on Mama, and held me at arm’s length. She looked me square in the eyes and sobbed, “I miss her!” That did it—I bolted for the bathroom and let loose with some wailing (or keening, as the Irish say) the likes of which I’d never done before. Ever. Huge sobs wracked my body and at that point I was ready to jump the funeral home ship. I calmed down, took some deep breaths, fixed my make-up and went back out.

I spotted Uncle Jimmy still by the book, and went up to tell him hello. As we embraced, I said, “I’m sorry for running away, it’s just…” I was on the verge of another meltdown. “SSssshhhh…I know. It’s okay.” Just those few words calmed me down. I also, for the most part, stayed out of the viewing room. I was a lobby bird for most of the evening.

Time during a viewing passes vvvvvveeeeeerrrrrrryyyyyy sssssssllllllloooooowwwwlllllyyyy. But I knew there was an end in sight—like my grandfather, I would cut out just before the rosary. Not because I’m averse to praying, but because I knew it would be a time filled with random sobbing from the assemblage. Kelly had taken care of an alternative—she had suggested that we and some of our classmates go to a bar at the casino.

“Yes! An Irish wake!” I’d said. Better than the rosary, and better than being alone.

I saw the first of my classmates to arrive, Tina, and was chatting with her when Kelly came in. Others followed: Cindy, Joel, and Greg. Tina couldn’t come to the bar with us, but it meant a great deal to me that they had come to the wake part as well as the Irish part. As soon as I saw the priest enter, I scrambled toward the back door. I went to my hotel and changed clothes, then took the shuttle over to the casino.

My classmates were waiting for me, and had already started the Irish part. We had a few rounds of drinks and talked about all kinds of things—people in town, people out of town, old days, high school, menopause (hey—we’re approaching 50, and three of us went to nursing school together!) and everything else we could think of.

Then we moved to a restaurant inside the casino, ordered dinner and another round of drinks, and did more talking: lots of boisterous, raunchy, laughing conversation. Some of us (who shall remain nameless) did Patron shots. OK, I did three, but I’m not tattling on the others. I don’t usually drink at all—a rare beer or glass of wine here or there—so I was literally feeling no pain by the time I caught the shuttle back to the hotel.

I had had the best time on one of the worst days in the worst month of my life. My mother, knowing how much I hate to cry, would have heartily approved, and Bunny would have, as well. I fell into bed and was fast asleep in no time, which is an anomaly on any night. When I woke up in the morning, I had a bit of a headache, but it wasn’t anything that Advil couldn’t fix.

As I showered, I reflected on how good I still felt from the night before. I have a habit of talking to myself—Bunny teased me endlessly about it—and today was no exception. He would overhear me and say, “What did you just say to Self?” A few years ago, I’d said, “It’s not Self—it’s Margeaux!” I’d had imaginary friends when I was about five, so he thought this was an amusing extension of that habit.

When I was toweling off, I said to Margeaux, “Now I know why the Irish drink!” “That sounds kind of like “I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings!” she answered. We keep each other entertained that way.