We Put the Fun in Funeral

August 16th is an important date for our family. For one thing, it's my sister's birthday. It's also the day on which both Elvis Presley and my paternal grandfather died, as well as not my birthday, so it isn't all fun and games. I'd like to say that Elvis and Pappaw (that's what we called my grandfather, because we're sophisticated like that) got tangled up in the rough stuff and went down together but the truth is that they died several years apart and Pappaw's idea of fast living was trying sweet acidophilus milk, so, not so much.

What do you say you let me get friendly with your blood pressure pills, Pap?

 

Growing up I was not pleased that Cslos was all up in my shit having a birthday a mere five weeks after mine. I felt that it was only reasonable to have the whole season to myself and was therefore reluctant to cede the birthday spotlight so soon. For that reason August 16, 1977 began in the Higdon household with my mother giving me a stern talking-to about how I was not to make this all about me, young lady, or I would be very sorry. This was my sister's day, and if there was even one tiny moment where I tried to steal her thunder then I could just go ahead and kiss my new Stretch Armstrong goodbye missy. So I'm glumly watching "The Price Is Right" while Mom gets Cslos ready for the big birthday party that was not mine when we cut to the "Breaking News!" that Elvis Presley has been pronounced dead. We lived in Memphis so this was a big fucking deal indeed. I ran upstairs to tell Mom that ELVIS is DEAD! and she grabs my arm and says "what did I tell you about trying to get all the attention today! Go back downstairs." It wasn't until we were in the car later on that she realized I actually spoke the truth. You'd think this would have bought me some credibility - or attention - but you'd be wrong.

 



Jesus called. Elvis answered.

 

Pappaw followed along a few years later, in a much less dramatic fashion as was his wont. His was the first funeral I remembered attending; according to my parents I'd been to my great-grandmother Sykes' funeral when I was very small, but I had no recollection of this. The only clear memory I had of Sykesie at all was of the time I talked her into playing "bride" with me, a game that involved her walking up and down the driveway holding flowers while I threw gravel at her. Exactly the kind of game fit for a nonagenarian. I was surprised to discover that aside from the sad aspect of it all funerals were actually pretty damn fun. We got to buy new clothes, go to Nashville and see everyone (aside from the star of the show, of course) and play with our cousins? Completely catered and supervised, if at all, by very distracted people? Don't mind if I do! Over the years we had some good times at Hibbett & Hailey, the funeral home of choice, located ironically just down the street from Nodyne Road and Wellman Drive. Lots of bad behavior and goofing off and whatnot. Old H&H must have sensed that my grandmother's funeral in '88 would be our last hurrah there because they sent us out in style; on the afternoon of the visitation my sister and I discovered an artificial leg in a coat closet. Just leaning against the wall, all by its lonesome, waiting for who knows what. Cslos and I to this day can't decide what to make of it - an aggressively practical relative snatched it out of a coffin so as not to be wasteful? Some attendee decided to switch to a mourning wear model? Death, you doth raise eternal questions!

 





A den of inequity! Or parlor of a funeral home.

 

Elvis is probably more popular now than he ever was alive. Dead Elvis week is a big deal in Memphis - maybe the biggest tourist draw of the year. It's difficult to describe how strange and enjoyable it is if you've never been; picture a poor man's Las Vegas with no gambling and lots of Japanese. I like to think about what a Dead Pappaw week would be like. I do know there would be spaghetti, and lots of Lawrence Welk and Liberace, and the look-alike contest would be heavy on severely hiked up pants. It sounds like the kind of thing that would really catch on in Brooklyn. Either way, people gave their lives for your birthday fun, Cslos. Enjoy it.

 

Happiest of birthdays to my beloved sister, Catherine Higdon. I love ya somethin awful.