This is the final chapter of the story of my grandmother's funeral. If you want to refresh your memory or just plain didn't read earlier chapters, here are links to Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
Now then: Wednesday morning, I put on my best (and darn near my only) suit and a pair of dress shoes I never wore anywhere except to the Magic Castle and funerals. Then I drove my mother to the church in Hartford for the funeral for her mother.
The day before, you may recall, we'd visited with the priest who'd be officiating…or whatever the proper word is for what a priest does at a funeral. Several of my grandmother's friends were bussed in from the Assisted Living Facility where she'd spent her last years, and there were people she'd known — not many but a few — from when she'd lived in East Hartford. One of them for some reason insisted on ticking off for me a list of my grandmother's close acquaintances who had died before she did. Since she'd made it to 97, it was a pretty long list.
The service was held in a church she had not attended in fifty-some-odd years and the priest was a man she had never met. I had given him a lot of information the day before about her, my mother and myself so he could insert names and facts into his speech. I have been to many funerals like this and it always feels to me like a macabre game of Mad-Libs. Once in the span of three weeks, I attended two services with the same rabbi presiding. He used the exact same eulogy —something about how the deceased "heard the music" in his life — and just filled-in the blanks with different nouns.
A somber organ played for quite some time in the chapel and finally the priest made his entrance. My mother, seated next to me, took one look at him and burst into laughter.
I don't know how to describe what he was wearing but it made the Pope's gaudiest outfit look like a beige tweed suit. There were robes upon robes. There was embroidery upon embroidery. There was brocade upon brocade. He couldn't have been more ostentatious if they'd lit up neon piping on his vestments and had a disco mirror ball pop up from his hat.
When my mother managed to contain her laughter, I whispered to her, "Gee, I thought he was going to be getting dressed up for this" and set her off again. Other mourners looked at us like…well, just watch "Chuckles Bites the Dust" again and you'll have a good picture. But this man of the gilded cloth was not fine with or even encouraging of laughter at a funeral. Instead, he gave a stern glare in our direction, then launched into a deeply-religious and very long oration about life and love and death and the Catholic Church and all that it does for the world. Occasionally, he even interrupted the infomercial for a moment or so in order to give a brief shout-out to Grandma.
I do not remember his name so let's call him Father Liberace…though come to think of it, Liberace was entertaining and didn't take himself seriously. This man droned on with a self-importance that could have shattered cold steel. On and on he went, finally getting to the part where he acknowledged the presence in the hall of the dearly departed's daughter and grandson. He made some detached remark about how I was not married, not Catholic and when he mentioned I was a television writer, it was with a tone of "The things some people will do to make a living."
Ah, but then he had to introduce me. My mother had asked that I say a few words. Just so there'd be someone speaking who'd known the deceased.
He stepped to one side as I got up to the lectern and said, "Thank you, Father Liberace. And I'm glad I checked with you this morning so I didn't wear the same outfit." I got a big laugh from the assemblage, a bigger laugh from my mother and a cold "Harumph!" from my opening act.
I went on. "Thank you for laughing at that. My grandmother loved to laugh. Now, that may seem like a silly thing to say because, you know, how many people do you meet who say, "Laughter? Can't stand it. No, I don't enjoy that one bit"? But there was something especially wonderful about my grandmother's laugh. It was pure. It was real. It was the laugh of someone who never had a selfish or mean thought in her entire life —"
— and I don't really recall where I went from there. I think I said a few more things about how nice and loving she was, and I know I got a few more laughs…not difficult when you have an audience that is being flattened by oppressive seriousness and is desperate for anyone to come along and lighten things up.
When I returned to my seat, Father Liberace reclaimed his pulpit and muttered something about, "Never follow a comedy writer" and he got a laugh. He looked like he rather enjoyed it.
The next thing I recall of the ceremony is that we were across the street in the burial location. It was cold and windy and though it wasn't snowing, the ground was frozen over with ice. My main concern was that my mother not topple on the icy turf and my secondary one was that I, in my slick dress shoes, did not slip 'n' slide all over the place. Father Liberace read some graveside words as about ten people and the cemetery crew shivered. Several men who looked too elderly to be making their livings with shovels were standing-by with them and I started wondering why the grave had not already been opened and prepared. Surely we weren't going to stand out there in the chilly air while three men, all of them about the same age as the dirt they were there to dig, dug.
When Father Liberace concluded his encore performance, an official of the church stepped forward and explained that because the ground was frozen and certain machinery was malfunctioning, the cemetery had been unable to dig my grandmother's grave. "With the family's permission, we will begin the excavation in a ceremonial manner and then the actual interment will be done later when the ground thaws or additional machinery arrives." He looked to my mother for approval and she looked to me.
I thought of saying, "We ain't leavin' 'til Grandma's pushin' up daisies" but instead, I said that would be fine. He signaled the men with the spades to do a little groundbreaking and they tried. Lord, how they tried. But the land was like Lucite and the diggers were probably older than most of those they buried. They couldn't begin to make a dent in the frozen earth.
Since I was the youngest one present, I asked if I could take a crack at it. Skidding a bit in my shoes, I took one man's shovel and chipped away at enough ice to dislodge about a tablespoon of soil. "There," I announced. "The grave is started! Now, let's all go in and bathe in the hot chocolate." Everyone agreed and we filed back into the chapel building where coffee, tea, hot cocoa and little cookies were served. My mother thanked each person who had attended and then whispered to me, "Let's get out of here…please."
We got out of there…pleased, speeding back to the Holiday Inn. We both had a sense of relief that we'd done what had to be done. My mother seemed alternately happy that it was over and sad that…well, that it was over. She had told me several times in the past that when she died, she did not want a funeral of any kind, and she reiterated that request then and there. I said, "That's too bad because the priest offered to either fly out and give the same speech or loan me his wardrobe so I can deliver it."
Meanwhile, an idea had been forming in my head. I got her back to her room where she could nap and smoke (not necessarily in that order and not at the same time), then went to mine to change clothes and flesh out my sorta-wild notion. This involved calling Brenda the Travel Agent back in Los Angeles to ask a few questions that would help determine feasibility and cost.
An hour or two later when my mother called and told me she was awake, I went to her room and sat down opposite her. "I would like to propose a change of plans," I began.
"We can stick with the old plan if you would like," I continued. "Tomorrow morning, we can fly back to Los Angeles and you'll be home by nightfall. If that's what you want to do, I'm fine with that. Or we can do something else that occurred to me…
"You're not likely to be back on this coast again for a long time…maybe ever. How would you like to go to New York for two nights? You haven't been there since 1959. That's thirty-eight years ago and it's changed a tiny bit since then.
"Instead of flying to Los Angeles, we take the train to New York. I've checked and there are suites available at my favorite hotel, the Righa Royal, which is on 54th Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues — and yes, we can get you a smoking one. They also have a wheelchair they can loan us if you're not up to walking much in Manhattan.
"You can rest up when we get there and then I would take you to dinner at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Station, which I promise you will be your favorite restaurant until the following night. The best scallops you ever had. Then we'll go see a show on Broadway. I have someone I can call and get us great seats.
"Nathan Lane is in his last week in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. There's a new production of The King and I I think you'd like. Or remember that movie you liked so much, Victor/Victoria? There's a musical version of that playing with Julie Andrews in it and there's also Sunset Boulevard and Beauty and the Beast and if you absolutely insist on it, I'm even willing to take you to see Cats.
"The next day if you're up to it, we'll do some sightseeing and then I'll take you out to Brooklyn for dinner at Peter Luger's Steak House. The best steak you ever had, I guarantee you. Then we'll go see another show from the aforementioned list and the next morning, we fly back to Los Angeles. What do you think?"
She thought for all of three seconds, then proclaimed it as the most wonderful idea she'd ever heard except maybe for one thing. "Won't this be expensive?" she asked.
"Less expensive than flying home and coming back another time," I told her. I don't think that was true but, well, maybe. It didn't matter. I said, "I'll visit one of my publishers while we're there and see if that makes the whole trip deductible."
With a grin I'll remember all my life, she said, "Okay. Let's do it."
"Great," I said. "I have some calls to make."
I ran back to my room and when I got there, the phone was ringing. It was my mother calling from the room I had just left.
"Mark," she said. "It's a lovely idea…so lovely. But I'm just not up to it. I'm so drained from this whole experience, I just want to be home. Thank you…and maybe we can do it some other time."
I said, "Sure…whenever you want." But we both knew there would be no other time.
The next morning, we flew back to Los Angeles. On the plane, she was mostly quiet but at one point, she turned to me and said, "I wish I'd gone back to see her a few more times. But other than that, I have no regrets."
I agreed. Other than that, no regrets.
My mother lived another fifteen and a half years after that but never got back near that coast. I took her as far as Las Vegas a few times…but her legs and her stamina got worse and worse and as they did, her world got smaller and smaller. Before long, Vegas was out of the question.
Then one Sunday, Carolyn and I took her up to Ojai to a party at the home of my partner, Sergio Aragonés, who made an exquisite paella for all. She loved the scenery. She loved Sergio's home. She loved the paella. The only thing she didn't love was being a two-hour drive from her own bed. After that at her request, we instituted a half-hour time limit on travel. She didn't want to go anywhere, no matter what it was, that was so far I couldn't have her home within thirty minutes.
I offered to take her to local plays and concerts and to see touring companies of Cirque du Soleil, which she'd seen in Vegas and loved…but the thirty-minute rule prevented all those. "If you get tired and want to go to bed," I told her, "we'll just leave."
"Nonsense," she'd respond. "I'm not going to turn to you halfway through Act One of a play you're enjoying and you paid good money for and say, 'Take me home.'" No matter how many times I told her I wouldn't mind, she stood by that position. She finally asked me to stop suggesting outings of that kind. Which I did until I came up with one she couldn't refuse…
Two years ago, I decided to have a 60th birthday party ostensibly for myself…but really, it was a way of dragging my mother out of her house and giving many of my friends a chance to meet her. There were some fabulous, fun venues available but I picked and bought out a small Chinese restaurant relatively close to where she lived. "It's at Fu's Palace," I told her. "You love Fu's Palace and it's a ten minute drive from here. Fifteen with egg roll."
She said, "But if I'm feeling too tired, I can't ask you to leave your own birthday party and drive me home."
I said, "It's all arranged. I have five different friends who've volunteered to chauffeur you home and tuck you in the instant you say you want to go." With that as a guarantee, she agreed to attend…and she was, of course, the hit of the party. She held court at the front table and there was actually a line to sit and talk with her. I overheard her tell Stan Freberg how she used to watch Time for Beany when she was pregnant with me. (There is no truth to the rumor that as I was born, I yelled out, "I'm comin', Beany Boy!")
She not only had a great evening, she wound up staying until we were the last to leave and I could drive her home myself. It was the last time she left her house to go anywhere that wasn't Kaiser Hospital.
She died seven months after that party.
When you lose a parent, you can't help but ask yourself what, if anything, you should have done that you didn't. When my father passed, I couldn't think of a thing. When my mother passed, I couldn't think of a thing, either. Every now and then though, I wonder if maybe I should have talked her into that detour to New York. She would have had such a great time. Such a great time.