Party for the Dead

The first clear memory I have was of my Great-Grandpa Miller’s funeral.  I was 2 or 3 years old.  The memory goes like this:  I am standing at the casket on my tippy toes because I want to see my Great-Grandpa.  Really, I want to crawl in that sweet, super comfy-looking casket and cuddle up with him (my mom told me later in life that we had gone to the nursing home to visit Grandpa Miller on a weekly basis for a while before he died and I would always just crawl up in bed with him which he loved.  It's no wonder I wanted to continue with this tradition at his funeral.)  No one else is currently standing with me but there is a lot of chatter and movement around the room.  This must be the visitation.  My Grandma Baker (daughter of the deceased) comes up next to me as I am smashing my little fingers into the side of this man’s lifeless face, trying to get his attention.  Grandma says in a startled voice, “No, honey, don’t do that!  He’s sleeping.  Just let him rest.”  I was not in agreement with Grandma as there is this FANTASTIC party going on and Great-Grandpa Miller is missing the whole thing.  He certainly will be disappointed when he learns he slept through such a shindig.  My tiny hands cannot escape Grandma’s grip as she pulls me away from the casket, whining and resisting.  She plops me down in a corner with my cousins and we drink punch and play with the old, worn out church toys.  

So that was my introduction to funerals.  They were lively, full of colorful flowers, people I love and don’t get to see very often, fruit punch, and toys!  Whatever was happening was okay in my book.  If there were tears I didn’t notice them.  My mom let me run around with my cousins and consume massive quantities of sugar.  Life and death were not topics that concerned me, yet.  Plus, from then on, I always loved a good party.

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