In 2002, I went to work at a funeral home as a secretary. I was responsible for writing obituaries, printing the folders handed out at the service, etc. One day, they were short a driver and needed someone to drive the hearse. I asked to do it, and they wanted to know if I could handle driving with a deceased person in the back. I responded that I’d spent years driving seventy-two live ones behind me, so I thought I could handle it.

That was the beginning of my final career of being a funeral director. I ended up doing the work I had been hired to do, plus working with families making arrangements; driving a limo or the hearse; making removals from homes, hospital, nursing homes, etc.; dressing the deceased; working visitations, funerals, and graveside services; and often playing the organ.   There were times when I came back from the graveside and had to get on the organ for another service.  Busy, busy, busy.

There were a couple of services when no one attended, and the only ones there were me, the priest, and the gravedigger.  Sometimes, the deceased had requested in their arrangement to be buried without anyone attending.

Occasionally, a fight would break out among families at the graveside.  We’ve even had to call the local law enforcement to break it up.  These fights could be pretty brutal and bloody.

When dressing the deceased, we cut the back of the clothes to put them on.  The first time I had to do that, it was all I could do to make myself cut a nice, brand new suit.  It took me a couple of tries before I finally did it.

You may find it strange to say, but I loved that job. Helping people in their time of grief was very rewarding, and some families have kept in touch.

One time really upset me. I walked into the room to meet with the family, and found a very young man – all alone – making arrangements for his mother’s funeral. It broke my heart to see him alone like that.

There were humorous times, if you can understand that. One particularly stands out for me. We’d been called to make a removal in this old two-story house, and I took another director with me. When we got there, the policeman told us we wouldn’t have any trouble because the gentleman was about my size.

Moving the family to the kitchen so they wouldn’t have to see us carry out their loved one, we found the stairs were narrow and turned back on itself. There was no way to get a gurney up there. Plus, the gentleman in question was frozen in the fetal position in his bed. You may not know, but dead weight is different from normal.

The policeman told us to put him in the wheelchair and send him down the one-person elevator. That by itself was ridiculous. Also, the family was in the kitchen, and I wasn’t going to move them again.

Finally, I suggested we pick him up in the sheet like a litter, grabbing four corners, and carry him down the stairs. That’s what we did.

When I told my son about this, he said, “So you go down to get him out of the elevator, and he’s not there!” You have to laugh sometimes to ease the tension.

At one service, I went up to escort the family out of the church, but they didn’t want to go until all four stanzas of the hymn they had chosen were played. It’s customary to take them out when the music starts. They weren’t having it.

There I stood in front of all these people while another director in the back kept waving me to come on. I gently shook my head no, and he waved even harder. Finally, he came to stand beside me and ask why I hadn’t taken the family to the limo. I said because they didn’t want to go. We’re talking, but our lips aren’t moving, and I’m standing there smiling like an idiot.

We had a removal service for when we couldn’t get away to pick up the loved one.  One day, a young woman working for that service was taking the gurney out of her van when the wheels collapsed.  It didn’t hurt anything.  The deceased was strapped on tightly.  All it did was collapse to the ground.   Our managing director at the time was not the bubbliest of people when in a good mood.  He was easily irritated, and ranted at the young woman, saying, “That’s just a piece of s***!”  He went to get one of our gurneys, and came out with one just as bad that went wonkety, wonkety, wonkety across the floor.  I told my colleague standing by me, “Oh, look, Linda, we have our own piece of s***!”  He didn’t even look around, and nothing was ever said, but my colleague still tells that story.

I must confess I’m a thief. I’d dealt with a family who didn’t have much, having spent everything they had taking care of both their parents on both sides. They were very humble and almost hid themselves to avoid being seen. The funeral home was always giving discount or services of one kind or another to well-to-do people who didn’t need discounts. This sweet couple couldn’t afford an urn for their loved one, so I stole one for them. No one ever noticed, and I don’t feel a bit guilty about it.

The men who drove the limos and the hearse really irritated me sometimes. They couldn’t turn a corner without taking up two lanes. One cemetery here is an historic one and dates back to carriage days. These fellows couldn’t drive through there without running over something. Once, I had to get out of my limo to get the hearse around the corner. Every time after that, when a service was scheduled for that cemetery, someone would say, “Call Yvonne. She’s the only one who can drive in there without running over a grave.” That was funny.

Once, while setting up for the service, I fell face first into a brick wall.  I went ahead and worked the service, with a humongous lump on my forehead causing my bangs to stick out like Dagwood’s, and later, drove the family home.  My manager sent me to an urgent care facility where I was told I had a concussion, and I wasn’t allowed to drive for five days.  The family was so nice and called me that night to see how I was.

When Katrina hit, every funeral home we owned in Louisiana forwarded their calls to us in Little Rock.  There were only two of us working that day, and you can imagine the flood of phone calls we got, especially from New Orleans, mostly asking if their graves were washed away.  We were frantically trying to handle all this when a man called and asked us to look up a name.  After a lot of effort in looking for this name, I had to confess we couldn’t find it.  The caller asked, “Do you know who I am?”  Right away, my hackles were up, and I replied I didn’t.  He said, in a most pompous tone, he was the CEO of our company.  So.  I asked, “Do you know who I am?”   He said he didn’t.  I said, “Good!” and hung up. 

You may think I’m a smart aleck.  Truly, I’m not.  I simply have a weird sense of humor.

I eventually stopped working because of health issues and surgeries.

So many stories. Maybe, if I haven’t bored everyone into a coma so far, I may tell some more later. Thanks for reading.