The Funeral
Oct. 15th, 2008 08:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rhythmaningMy mother’s funeral was more than a week ago; there were lots of things I wanted to say about it, but I am not sure if I can remember them all. It might still be too soon.
Thoughts of the funeral had dominated the previous week or so – once the immediate shock of her death, and the need to do the tiresome bureaucratic tasks had been taken care of – seeing registrars, undertakers, lawyers and so on. All that could trundle on.
We had chosen the music and decided on the order of service; my brother found three poems he thought would be good to read – I hadn’t a clue what my mother would have wanted. We decided we would read one each, so we needed someone to read the third. We also wanted three people who knew her from different parts of her life to speak, so we had to ask them, too.
It was hard to get in touch with everyone we wanted to – my mother’s address book ran to several box files, ordered in ways which she understood but made no sense to us. (At least one old family friend who I hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years – since my father died – saw the notice in we placed in various papers, so that was worthwhile!)
My wife (from whom I separated eighteen months ago – it has been a hell of a couple of years!), who was close to my mother, was coming down from Edinburgh, and needed somewhere to stay overnight, and I said would ask a friend if she could stay with them. My wife also said she’d be honoured to read a poem, and I was glad she would be taking part.
Two things kept me awake at night: I mean, really kept me awake at night (and I don’t sleep particularly well at the best of times!): whether one person we had asked to speak was happy to do so, and where my wife should stay – would it make more sense for me to stay with my friends, or my wife? Would she think I was interfering or making things complicated? It now sounds stupid, but these things worried me. I don’t worry easily.
It was hard to concentrate, too: hard to settle down and actually do stuff. Hard to read. And I wasn’t feeling overly sociable – I didn’t know what to say when people phoned up to express condolences. (I still don’t).
I practiced reading the poem I had chosen to read; I couldn’t get past the end of the first line, however many times I tried.
The ceremony was on Monday at noon. I dressed in a suit and tie, looking more like I was going to work than a funeral. I went to meet my wife at my friends’ and brought her back to the flat; we sat and had coffee. I didn’t really know what to do.
We got to the crematorium early, but there were already quite a few people there: some people I knew well, others were just recognised faces; others I didn’t know. There was a lot of milling around, more waiting; every time someone came up to me, tears welled in my eyes. There were a lot of hugs.
It was good to see people there: people who said they couldn’t make it were there, too – it was humbling to see the lengths my mother’s friends had gone to in order to be there. A lot of people had come from London, others from Edinburgh, East Anglia (it isn’t easy to get from Norfolk to Oxford!).
We went into the crematorium – chapel? I don’t know. It was crowded – there were people standing. There were at least two professors, an MP, several authors; old friends and colleagues; the great and good. It was a good turn out.
As we entered, Vaughan Williams’ “Lark Ascending” was played.
The – officiator? conductor? – of the ceremony spoke briefly about how the ceremony would work, and said a few words about my mother. There was a moment of humour when she described my mother as a grandmother – she wasn’t – and I could hear people murmuring, wondering whether there was a long lost love child somewhere… The officiator spoke some more – about community (ha!), friendship and memory.
My brother spoke first – he corrected the officiator, pointing out that she was a step-grandmother (he has step children – fully grown – in the States). He then read Life Is But A Dream, by Lewis Carroll.
A local councillor then spoke about how she had worked with my mother over the last few years in Oxford, and how tireless and energetic my mother had been at campaigning both in party politics and on behalf of local issues.
Then I read my poem:
I made it to the fourth line, before handing over to the officiator. I doubt the irony was lost on people, as I was weeping vigorously. The poem does reflect how I feel, though – my thoughts and memories.
Then there was the sole hymn - Lord of the Dance. Until I looked it up just now, I thought this was an old Shaker hymn from the 19th century; in fact it comes from 1963, but is based on a Shaker tune. It was also sung at my father’s funeral (I couldn’t sing it then, either). The tune was used by Copland’s Appalachian Spring, which we saw during this year’s festival. The Shakers are (were?) a protestant sect derived from the Quakers, and much of the humanist service was, I think, derived from Quaker services. So it really made sense to have this, at a lot of different levels.
This was followed by an old family friend, who had been a student with my mother and father – she and her husband and my parents had doubled up on holidays and so on. She, too, was weeping, as she told stories of being students together, long ago holidays, and more recent adventures. She too was weeping – afterwards, she said she had been fine until I had started to read…
Then Lotus Blossom by Duke Ellington was played. Even before this, I have found it a very lovely, but mournful tune; now, though, I think I will always think of my mother, and the funeral.
My wife read next - Death Is Nothing At All, by Henry Scott Holland. She read it very well – the schoolteacher showing – but of all the readings, this resonated least: my mother isn’t in the next room; and death does count.
I was glad my wife was there. I needed someone to hold my hand.
Then one of my mother’s colleagues spoke. I hadn’t met him before – they worked together a lot over the last twenty years, most of which I have spent out of England. He too was moved to tears.
There was then space for anyone to talk, and a very old family friend stood up a gave a speech. We had thought about asking him – he is a broadcaster, and so speaks well – but we had decided to have three speakers, and couldn’t get hold of him; and we knew he may well speak anyway. He told about how he and his family moved next door to us – over forty years ago – and how welcoming my mother and father were, and how sophisticated they seemed. Given his standing, this amused me no end! He told stories of parties at our house, and notably, burning down the garden fence during a firework party in our garden. (I don’t remember this: I remember that the ash tree in their garden caught fire one time, though – I wonder if that was the same incident?).
To leave on a high, if blue, note, we played the Brotherhood of Breath’s MRA to leave by. (Strangely, this is sometimes written MRA, as an acronym, or Mra, as a word.) The undertaker and the officiator tried to usher us out quickly, but my brother said no – “we have to wait for the brass to start!” And he was absolutely right. It only takes 45 seconds anyhow…
(On the proofs for the order of service, the undertaker had Lark Ascending as “entrance music” and MRA as… “exit music”! This seemed far, far too negative – we changed it to “entrance” and “departure”…)
Outside, there was more waiting around: it was almost like a line at a wedding, with lots of people coming up to us; many more hugs and a lot more tears (and hugging people who are crying makes me cry, too…). We had to wait for the pall bearers to bring the flowers out, which seemed really bizarre to me – but flowers don’t get cremated, apparently: so we got to take them away.
There was party afterwards, although many people didn’t stay. It was around the corner from my mother’s flat, at the Masion Francaise. I for one needed a drink – actually, I needed several. There was food too. And a lot of talk of my mother, and my father.
I think the service would have suited my mother; but there was a lot of my father there, too – which is fitting.
We drank and talked and ate for two hours, and people started drifting away; my extended family – wife, brother, aunt, uncle, cousins, my sister-in-law and her nephew – ferried the unopened wine (my brother complaining he hadn’t drunk enough. Yet) and plates of food back to the flat, and sat, talking for a couple of hours more.
Then I needed to escape, so I walked my wife back to where she was staying, and watched them eat and played with kittens and felt nearly normal again.
Thoughts of the funeral had dominated the previous week or so – once the immediate shock of her death, and the need to do the tiresome bureaucratic tasks had been taken care of – seeing registrars, undertakers, lawyers and so on. All that could trundle on.
We had chosen the music and decided on the order of service; my brother found three poems he thought would be good to read – I hadn’t a clue what my mother would have wanted. We decided we would read one each, so we needed someone to read the third. We also wanted three people who knew her from different parts of her life to speak, so we had to ask them, too.
It was hard to get in touch with everyone we wanted to – my mother’s address book ran to several box files, ordered in ways which she understood but made no sense to us. (At least one old family friend who I hadn’t seen for nearly twenty years – since my father died – saw the notice in we placed in various papers, so that was worthwhile!)
My wife (from whom I separated eighteen months ago – it has been a hell of a couple of years!), who was close to my mother, was coming down from Edinburgh, and needed somewhere to stay overnight, and I said would ask a friend if she could stay with them. My wife also said she’d be honoured to read a poem, and I was glad she would be taking part.
Two things kept me awake at night: I mean, really kept me awake at night (and I don’t sleep particularly well at the best of times!): whether one person we had asked to speak was happy to do so, and where my wife should stay – would it make more sense for me to stay with my friends, or my wife? Would she think I was interfering or making things complicated? It now sounds stupid, but these things worried me. I don’t worry easily.
It was hard to concentrate, too: hard to settle down and actually do stuff. Hard to read. And I wasn’t feeling overly sociable – I didn’t know what to say when people phoned up to express condolences. (I still don’t).
I practiced reading the poem I had chosen to read; I couldn’t get past the end of the first line, however many times I tried.
The ceremony was on Monday at noon. I dressed in a suit and tie, looking more like I was going to work than a funeral. I went to meet my wife at my friends’ and brought her back to the flat; we sat and had coffee. I didn’t really know what to do.
We got to the crematorium early, but there were already quite a few people there: some people I knew well, others were just recognised faces; others I didn’t know. There was a lot of milling around, more waiting; every time someone came up to me, tears welled in my eyes. There were a lot of hugs.
It was good to see people there: people who said they couldn’t make it were there, too – it was humbling to see the lengths my mother’s friends had gone to in order to be there. A lot of people had come from London, others from Edinburgh, East Anglia (it isn’t easy to get from Norfolk to Oxford!).
We went into the crematorium – chapel? I don’t know. It was crowded – there were people standing. There were at least two professors, an MP, several authors; old friends and colleagues; the great and good. It was a good turn out.
As we entered, Vaughan Williams’ “Lark Ascending” was played.
The – officiator? conductor? – of the ceremony spoke briefly about how the ceremony would work, and said a few words about my mother. There was a moment of humour when she described my mother as a grandmother – she wasn’t – and I could hear people murmuring, wondering whether there was a long lost love child somewhere… The officiator spoke some more – about community (ha!), friendship and memory.
My brother spoke first – he corrected the officiator, pointing out that she was a step-grandmother (he has step children – fully grown – in the States). He then read Life Is But A Dream, by Lewis Carroll.
A local councillor then spoke about how she had worked with my mother over the last few years in Oxford, and how tireless and energetic my mother had been at campaigning both in party politics and on behalf of local issues.
Then I read my poem:
Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am in a thousand winds that blow,
I am the softly falling snow.
I am the gentle showers of rain,
I am the fields of ripening grain.
I am in the morning hush,
I am in the graceful rush
Of beautiful birds in circling flight,
I am the starshine of the night.
I am in the flowers that bloom,
I am in a quiet room.
I am in the birds that sing,
I am in each lovely thing.
Do not stand at my grave and cry,
I am not there. I do not die.
(attributed to Elizabeth Frye)
I made it to the fourth line, before handing over to the officiator. I doubt the irony was lost on people, as I was weeping vigorously. The poem does reflect how I feel, though – my thoughts and memories.
Then there was the sole hymn - Lord of the Dance. Until I looked it up just now, I thought this was an old Shaker hymn from the 19th century; in fact it comes from 1963, but is based on a Shaker tune. It was also sung at my father’s funeral (I couldn’t sing it then, either). The tune was used by Copland’s Appalachian Spring, which we saw during this year’s festival. The Shakers are (were?) a protestant sect derived from the Quakers, and much of the humanist service was, I think, derived from Quaker services. So it really made sense to have this, at a lot of different levels.
This was followed by an old family friend, who had been a student with my mother and father – she and her husband and my parents had doubled up on holidays and so on. She, too, was weeping, as she told stories of being students together, long ago holidays, and more recent adventures. She too was weeping – afterwards, she said she had been fine until I had started to read…
Then Lotus Blossom by Duke Ellington was played. Even before this, I have found it a very lovely, but mournful tune; now, though, I think I will always think of my mother, and the funeral.
My wife read next - Death Is Nothing At All, by Henry Scott Holland. She read it very well – the schoolteacher showing – but of all the readings, this resonated least: my mother isn’t in the next room; and death does count.
I was glad my wife was there. I needed someone to hold my hand.
Then one of my mother’s colleagues spoke. I hadn’t met him before – they worked together a lot over the last twenty years, most of which I have spent out of England. He too was moved to tears.
There was then space for anyone to talk, and a very old family friend stood up a gave a speech. We had thought about asking him – he is a broadcaster, and so speaks well – but we had decided to have three speakers, and couldn’t get hold of him; and we knew he may well speak anyway. He told about how he and his family moved next door to us – over forty years ago – and how welcoming my mother and father were, and how sophisticated they seemed. Given his standing, this amused me no end! He told stories of parties at our house, and notably, burning down the garden fence during a firework party in our garden. (I don’t remember this: I remember that the ash tree in their garden caught fire one time, though – I wonder if that was the same incident?).
To leave on a high, if blue, note, we played the Brotherhood of Breath’s MRA to leave by. (Strangely, this is sometimes written MRA, as an acronym, or Mra, as a word.) The undertaker and the officiator tried to usher us out quickly, but my brother said no – “we have to wait for the brass to start!” And he was absolutely right. It only takes 45 seconds anyhow…
(On the proofs for the order of service, the undertaker had Lark Ascending as “entrance music” and MRA as… “exit music”! This seemed far, far too negative – we changed it to “entrance” and “departure”…)
Outside, there was more waiting around: it was almost like a line at a wedding, with lots of people coming up to us; many more hugs and a lot more tears (and hugging people who are crying makes me cry, too…). We had to wait for the pall bearers to bring the flowers out, which seemed really bizarre to me – but flowers don’t get cremated, apparently: so we got to take them away.
There was party afterwards, although many people didn’t stay. It was around the corner from my mother’s flat, at the Masion Francaise. I for one needed a drink – actually, I needed several. There was food too. And a lot of talk of my mother, and my father.
I think the service would have suited my mother; but there was a lot of my father there, too – which is fitting.
We drank and talked and ate for two hours, and people started drifting away; my extended family – wife, brother, aunt, uncle, cousins, my sister-in-law and her nephew – ferried the unopened wine (my brother complaining he hadn’t drunk enough. Yet) and plates of food back to the flat, and sat, talking for a couple of hours more.
Then I needed to escape, so I walked my wife back to where she was staying, and watched them eat and played with kittens and felt nearly normal again.