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I wonder as I wander . . .
Mental Mastrubation and Other Musings |
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I have a degree from Julliard in Composition, I’m a world traveled concert pianist, and was nominated for two Grammy’s but today I’m the funeral musician at my Uncle Delbert’s “Going Home” ceremony. Actually I’ve been the family’s unofficial funeral entertainment since the age of ten. Uncle “D” was the best mortician in Benefield County so the crowed church is packed with family, friends, and the families of the dearly departed he serviced with his stellar mortuary services. Uncle Delbert had a secret method of embalming a body that looked like any minute they’d rise from their coffin and cry with the mourners on the first pew. Evidently they used his magic potions on him because Uncle “D” in Seville Row, midnight blue pin stripped suit, Van Huesen powder blued button down shirt, silver tie with matching pocket square, and platinum tie clip with diamond stud looked like he’s ready to officiate his own services. I’ll bet if they flung open the lower portion of the casket you’d see Stacy Adams Spectators on his feet. Uncle “D” was always sharp and I’ve seen many a crying widow peek from behind their hankies and give him a second look. Being a fourth generation mortician he took great pride in his appearance and his clients as well. “I send them back to God in style”, he said as the whir of the machine pumped his “joy juice” through the corpses on the cooling table twitching in rhythm with his voice. That summer I stood there transfixed in horror with the sites and smells of his “workshop.” As he stood over me waving smelling salts under my nose I could still hear the machine filling up Mrs. Seawright, my first piano teacher a foot away from where I passed out. That moment ensured I didn’t have the stomach to carry on the family business. In fact of my grandparent’s brood he was the only one to pick up the torch. Behind his back his siblings called him “Deathbert” Anderson but in actuality he became the most successful of the nine children. He was the county’s mortician and the family’s loan shark who’d dole out his money to everyone of his siblings in the form of college tuition, bail, short and long-term loans and funeral arrangements. He’d make them sign promissory notes and pay interest and though they’d grumble at his fastidious money dealings they’d comply and come back for more. He paid my way through Julliard and once my career took off I repaid his generosity by using my notoriety to market his business. As I look out into the sea of sullen faces I see my own face staring back in a picture I posed for that he used on the back of fans now waving in the breeze. Softly I play Sweet Hour of Prayer under Reverend Higgins baritoned eulogy. My large family clumped together in all their tears and black clothing make me wonder how many are crying because they’ll miss the man or their financier. Will the same out pouring of grief be seen at the reading of the will? As I play and ponder I notice an unfamiliar person coming up the main aisle with two small children on each hand. The statuesque woman in haute couture black clearly appears devastated by the morning’s proceedings and I can see her steadfast approach tells me that when she reaches the coffin she’ll have a dramatic response once all three reach the body. Each step she takes forces the people she passes to shift from grief to puzzlement as folks speculate whom the mystery woman? The closer she gets I noticed my Aunt Neaetta, Uncle Delbert’s wife snap her head in the direction of the woman. I also notice the two small children eerily look like Uncle Delbert. Clearly death was not the only familial business Uncle “D” dealt in.