by Rachael Himsel
Our family funerals were always loud. So many people, slaps on backs, hugs after not seeing each other in a while… whiskey, Coke, Diet Coke, pop/soft drinks (depending on who was asking), deviled eggs, at least two varieties of cookies, at least one cake, and definitely a bowl of those tiny pretzels next to a big bowl of chips. It was disappointing when the funeral chips were plain Lays - I preferred the deaths that dealt out Doritos or at least BBQ Lays.
As a kid navigating a world of adults, I would seek out my cousins, and eventually, we would get in trouble for playing too rough or too “wild.”
I was accused of being “wild” quite often, though I argued, we were just having fun. I also returned the accusation, asking the same finger-shaking adults, “Do you know how loud you are after you’ve had four Buds and two whiskey-Cokes?”
That would draw a round of laughter from everyone in the room - isn’t it cute how a nine-year old knows what a whiskey-Coke is? And I would go back to playing with my cousins or, more likely, standing in the doorway of Becher-Kluesner funeral home staring at the corpse: one year my grandma Recker, the next year my grandpa Recker, my brother-in-law Ray, my Grandma Himsel, Uncle Robert, Uncle Junior, Aunt Shirley, Uncle Kissy, my nephew Phillip… as I got older, it seemed, the funerals became a little less raucous, though. Those 80s glory days of Becher Kluesner were overtaken by a more socially-aware 90s vibe… maybe we shouldn’t get blitzed at a funeral, what do you think guys?
Better yet, let’s stop with these open caskets - I mean, how macabre can we be? Burn me up, please, or turn me into coral. But don’t stare at my decomposing flesh, please.
My brother Jim thought it was funny to pick up our home phone and say, ‘Becher Kluesner’ just to mess with people. My brother John went to school with one of the guys who ran Becher Kluesner.
In 2017 when my brother John died by suicide, his buddy was especially kind and accommodating, as was the entire staff there. My brother was cremated, and we held his service at the funeral home, as John was many things, but religious was not one of them.
I stood up and told the story about one night that stood out, when John, my sister Sarah, and her best friend Boo and I were watching a scary movie, and all of a sudden we heard noises outside - even though our closest neighbors were a cornfield away!
I was probably eight, Sarah and Boo eighteen, John nineteen. John went outside to see who was there, and when he came back in, he told us he saw two men in ski masks outside! We all ran around locking doors, and I clung to my sister. Terrified, we looked to John for instructions. “We should go into the other room!” he shouted. We followed him. And then, we heard a scary noise - someone was on the roof!
“Stay here!” John said as he took a flashlight to investigate. But just then, one of the masked men fell through the porch ceiling!
The joke was over as John helped him up and made sure he was ok. We were very confused by this, and stayed in our room hiding until John told us to come out and our cousin Goat took off his ski mask. My cousin Donnie, the other ‘masked man,’ took off his stocking cap and we realized John had just given an Academy-award worthy performance - he had been in on the joke all along. How long would it have gone on, if Goat hadn’t accidentally fallen through the apparently rotten roof of our porch? And how angry would my father be when he saw the hole?!
We were very upset with them, but also quite impressed with the commitment it took to follow through on this elaborate trick.
The trick worked. Goat and Boo dated, and eventually married. They’re together today.
And that’s the brother I will always remember, I said. John was fun, and funny, and so smart.
What a cross to bear.
At the graveyard, we decided it would be only us siblings. My sister Sarah, as usual, was the first to arrive. I parked my car, and walked toward her on that cold February day. She always looks so pretty, I thought. How does she do it? I’m sure I was wearing terribly sensible shoes, likely slacks because my dress days are over, and likely no makeup. Sarah on the other hand wore a dress with heels, jewelry, and perfect makeup, under her tailored coat.
Sarah had a small brown paper bag in her hand, a small gift bag, which was a little odd, seeing as we were, you know, in a graveyard.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She took a second and with a wry smile said, “John.”
I smiled too. Then laughed. We both had a quick laugh, knowing we shouldn’t be laughing in a graveyard. We also knew John would have been laughing harder than both of us…at his formerly 6-foot tall body becoming small enough to fit into a small paper bag, at my sister holding him as if she could just as well be holding a birthday gift.
John would have appreciated a joyful funeral. He would have wanted us to find some humor in perhaps the least humorous day any of us had ever had in our lives. John would have wanted a happy memorial.
Eventually all nine of us stood by my mom’s grave, the earth still brown and in a mound, since she’d just been buried two months before. John’s ashes were going to be removed from the paper gift bag and placed in the ground above where my mother’s hands were resting.
And so we left a paper bag with what was left of John with his buddy from Becher Kluesner.
He would be at peace at last.