My brother and I were having lunch last Sunday and not talking about anything important, just what I call Family Notes: You know the theme: Which nieces and nephews were getting married, getting divorced, getting pregnant, getting paroled. Then we had an extended discussion about which of his ex-wives is the craziest, a never-ending topic of delight, the answer to which changes with the tides.
As we ate he was telling me the story about how the second ex-husband of his third ex-wife would break into their house and steal my brother’s shoes. (They’re both size 12.) I have heard the story before but a story like that is too good to be told only once. Then my cell phone rang.
There was no name on the caller ID, but the number looked vaguely familiar. I was going to let the call go to voicemail, but I decided to pick it up. On a whim, I put it on speaker phone.
A very pleasant voice identified herself as Colleen from a local funeral home. That explained why the number looked so familiar: it was the home that had handled my mother’s service several years ago and screwed it up royally. Colleen was the one who had “forgotten” to move any of the flowers from the funeral home to the Church, so the alter was as empty and barren as a garage. She had also handed out prayer cards with the wrong name on them. I looked at my brother; clearly he remembered Colleen too.
Now, however, she asked if “Larry” was available and before I could answer she said she was planning the funeral service for Larry’s good friend Doug and she needed some biographical data.
“We want to personalize the service for poor Doug,” she said adding, “It’s a once in a lifetime event for him, so we want to do it right.”
I was trying to understand how a funeral could be a “once in a lifetime” event for the deceased, and I stared stupidly at the phone for a moment. Then, before I could respond my brother took the phone away from me. “I’m Larry,” he said, although he’s not, and neither of us know a “Doug.” I motioned for him to give me back the phone but he waved me away. “Poor Doug,” he said sadly, a wicked gleam in his eye. “He was like a brother to me. What do you want to know?” he asked Colleen, smirking..
Colleen asked if Doug had any special interest and I could see my brother’s wheels turning. “Ferrets,” he said at last. “Doug loved ferrets. Can you do a ferret theme for the wake?” he asked, ignoring my dropped jaw. “Perhaps put a picture of a ferret on his prayer card?”
I tried to grab the phone from him but he walked away. I followed.
“Other interests included sumo wrestling,” I heard him say. He thought for a moment. “And yodeling. Can you play some Bavarian yodeling music on the sound system?” He paused again while Colleen talked and I thought the worst was over. It wasn’t. Colleen wanted to know how Doug should be dressed.
“Lederhosen,” I heard him say firmly. “Doug would have wanted to have been buried in his beloved lederhosen.” My brother paused; Colleen was confused about where they would find Doug’s lederhosen
“Check his closet,” he suggested. “They’re probably next to his loincloth collection. Or just go buy him a pair; it was his dying wish.”
Colleen asked if Doug would want a favorite memento to go into the coffin with him.
“Can you line the coffin with a rubber sheet?” asked my brother, inspired. “Doug would have liked that,” he said, refusing to make eye contact with me.
I did not hear what Colleen said next, but I heard my brother loud and clear.
“Yes,” he said. “As a matter of fact I have a perfect epitaph for poor Doug.”