I grew up going to funerals.
As a kid growing up on Cherry Street, in Mission City, British Columbia, I presided over all the neighbourhood pet funerals. It was a busy street and back in that era, dogs, cats and kids, all roamed freely. Too, there was always a smashed robin or two that hit our big living room window, so my funeral business was pretty brisk. I was allowed the back strip of dirt in the garden for my cemetery. I would dig a hole, place the dead animal carefully in the fresh earth, read from the Bible, make my friends sing a hymn or two and paint big crosses on fat rocks to serve as headstones.
I gained all my funereal expertise from the Cedar Valley Mennonite Church. In our world, it was generally understood that everyone in the congregation would attend all the funerals, so I had plenty of time on those hard pews to learn the rituals.
As well, Mom never missed reading the obituaries every Wednesday when the Fraser Valley Record newspaper showed up, and, of course, there were the funeral reports broadcast from the brown and cream radio. The transistor, forever tuned to CFVR, sat on the window sill above the kitchen sink. Every day, the funeral reports came on right after the hog market report.
At night, once Mom had prompted me through my prayers, I would lie in bed as random headlights would pierce the curtains, pushing black shadows around my room. On nights when I felt unjustly accused or punished, I would imagine my funeral. Oh they’d feel horrible and wish they’d treated me better. My indignation was matched only by my feverish imagination. I saw myself in the open casket at the front of the church and heard the crying and apologies.
They’d be so sorry.
So when I read Tom Sawyer for the first time, I eagerly took in the scene of Tom and Jim witnessing their own funeral. I remember that reader’s thrill of realizing I was not alone in imagining these things.
My fascination with cemeteries and death has continued. Whenever we travel, I have made it my mission to visit as many cemeteries as possible. I love seeing how each culture deals with their dead with their unique customs, rituals and beliefs.
By now, I can hear your question, “Where, Colleen, are you going with all this?”
First, let me digress and back up a little.
My mom suffered from depression. Of course, back then we never named it or discussed it. It was only as an adult that I understood what she might have been dealing with. I was told that her little blue pills of Valium (and maybe that’s what she was told too) were for her back pain which was ongoing and often debilitating. But more than back pain, I think Mom was often just sad. To be fair, between the funeral reports, the obituaries and the bad news shared via her telephone Prayer Chain, my mother had no shortage of sources for that sadness.
But I think it started long before that. There are very few images of my mom but the one I recall best is a black and white photo. She is a solemn blonde-haired five-year old girl standing beside her siblings as they surround the open casket of her mother. The wood coffin is on sawhorses in a cold looking Saskatchewan patch of hard-packed dirt. The newborn twins are not in the picture.
Maybe her fascination with funerals, and hence mine, started then?
There is so much I would ask her now but Mom’s been dead for 36 years and when she was alive, her fervent beliefs didn’t allow for many heart-to-heart conversations beyond her begging me to repent and ask Jesus into my heart.
In my last post, I wrote about my Parkinson’s diagnosis. It felt like a very necessary thing to do. It was/is a way for me to take control of my own narrative because, quite frankly, this disease has left me feeling decidedly not in control. And isn’t writing, or any act of creation, a way of transmuting emotion, whether pain or joy, into some sort of art? Something outside of ourselves. Something tangible and separate?
Life as art? Art as life?
What I had not expected, and was not prepared for, was all the incredible messages of support and kindness that were sent my way.
So here, finally, is where all this is going…all those messages, dear readers, made me feel like I had been transported to my own funeral and, like Tom Sawyer, was listening in on a collection of eulogies.
Eulogies about me.
Except, like Tom, I am alive. Present. Here. And so grateful.
All of this is a very long way to say thank you.
Thank you for reading. Thank you for being in my life. Thank you for the kindness and love and all the support.
I have a request.
Like you did for me, please keep reaching out to the people you love, and tell them now, while they’re alive and in your life, all the wonderful things you’d say about them at their wake.
Because I promise you this…unless they’ve faked their death like Tom, they won’t hear a word you say at their funeral.
Tell them now.
Take it from me and Tom.
We happen to know a thing or two about funerals.
Dear Colleen, I was on the island when Davina got in touch to let me know about the doctor’s diagnosis. It is hard to know what to say when the girl with the golden smile gets a smack like that. This ugly disease has been doing the rounds for some time – let’s hope they come up with something to prevent or cure it. Your musings on funerals reminds me that my husband’s grave slate is in Wales by a tiny church near the sea. My daughter and family were there last month and spent some time in cleaning the slate after years of neglect. It is nice to know that he rests in peace under a clean blanket !! Much love.
Thanks for your thoughts Joan.
I am also hoping that somewhere there is some brilliant scientist working on a miraculous fix…meanwhile, I try to move as much as possible since everything I’ve read says that is key in helping slow the disease. We shall see.
Your husband’s grave site by the sea sounds so beautiful. Wales is one of my favourite places and I can imagine that spot.
Take care.
Hi Colleen,
I figured out how to find your blog. What you have witnessed personally and written about for others to understand is very humbling, honest and illuminating. I so admire your ability to choose strength and daily joy rather than the contrary. You have been such an inspiration for so many and are continuing to carry that torch through your art and writing during this oh-so-difficult time.
See you in November.😘
Hello Sheila. Glad you found your way here.
Thank you for such lovely comments. I’m not always successful at finding the joy and, as Kevin can attest, there are times…
However, I also know that’s true for all of us.
What I know for sure is that the journey is somehow easier when it’s shared.
Thank you for being part of it. As it’s been said before, we are all just walking each other home.
Gawwwdddddd. For so many reasons. Your words create images that ache with truth. ‘Pushing shadows’ – palpable. In my own awareness of the process, some days I sense that I am shuffling all the shadows of my past into a closet thst never gives me the satisfaction of closing. On other days I orchestrate them as a dancing troupe moulon rouge style with high kicking. Life is – all. We are so blessed that you chose to come to Kimberley.i feel so blessed to have such a mentor for (as a friend said the other day), heading into the basement and making friends with the dark. With love – Lori
Lori. Thank you for the visual of those high-kicking shadows and the added vision of you trying to shove them back in that closet.
Life is such a crazy variety pack eh?
I often took my 8 year old grandson to visit my father’s grave and would talk to Dad how much he would love his great grandson. One day while driving my grandson said , “let’s go visit the dead boy”. I pondered this comment then realized he meant my Dad and we went to the graveyard and talked to “the dead boy”. Such a memorable moment.
Barbara, What a great story and what a gift for your grandson to have a connection like that.
I am on the PD journey and dealing with the shifting realities. Please add me to your blogs. Wvanesch@dccnet.com.
Thanks Barbara, Sorry to hear you’re navigating this too.
Unfortunately, I can’t add you but if you scroll to the bottom of the Home Page on my blog, you can add your email address to the spot where it says, “Get Colleen in you Inbox!”
Thank you for this poignant reminder, Colleen. After my brother’s memorial, my dad said he’d like to be at his own to hear all the nice things said about him. Unfortunately, that event occurred only eight months later. He also joked frequently about checking the obituaries in the paper, and the relief when he didn’t see his name. Miss laughing with him so much, but so grateful to see that same spirit shining in my own sons, who I try to tell frequently all the nice things I think about them.
Tamara,
Your dad had a wonderful presence. I’m glad that beautiful spirit continues in you all.
Isn’t it wonderful, and so interesting, how shared laughter creates such a strong connection?
Beautiful words fastened together perpose. You paint a true picture in the reader’s mind ❤️
Thanks Zena.
Your words create a profound resonance within my heart, mind and soul. You are Gifted. Sage. Humble. Authentic.
Thank you for … well … sharing a glimpse of your essence. You’re beyond remarkable.
Ahh Teresa. Thank you for saying so, though I must say I don’t feel very sage-like. I think, like you, reading lots of books gives us an ability to imagine others’ lives. And that is a huge gift.
I absolutely love your writing Colleen. So well said and the images your words form are vivid and beautiful. I love graveyards… so many untold stories as I walk around and imagine the people connected to the dates on a headstone. There is a poem about the dash in between the dates … what do we fill our dashes with? Thank you for your reminder to tell people in our lives we love them😍
Thanks Helen. I like the idea of the dash between the dates. It’s nice to find another lover of graveyards. There seems to be more of us than I realized…
Colleen, you are amazing.
How I love seeing you smile and conversing with you
This is so well written like all your blogs..
Love ya Kiddo
Thanks Cindy. Have we ever been together and not laughed? It’s always a treat to see you.
I knew there was a connection when I met you!
Love this!
Love you!
And yes, I’ll hug you again when I see you!
❤️🤗🥰🙏🏼💐🐝
Looking forward to a Kelly hug 🙂
This is beautiful, and resonates on several levels. I was raised in a similar church community (and my mom would have liked me to continue this).
I also like funerals – so much so that I became a funeral celebrant after retiring from teaching. I offer people who consider themselves “unchurched” the opportunity to have a funeral – but with only as much faith-based stuff as they want. Some want none and others ask for a prayer or scripture reading – and I can give whatever they request because my goal is to offer some comfort (without evangelizing).
You’re right – the dead don’t hear the loving words – only the living do.
Make time to tell the people you love just how much you care.
Hello Carol. One of the first articles I ever wrote was for Vancouver’s Georgia Straight’s ‘education’ issue. I interviewed several funeral home people and was fascinated, especially, with the idea of the funeral celebrant. I’m so glad celebrants like you exist. It is such a gift you provide for the people left behind.Thank you for doing what you do.
What are we waiting for?
Listen to the song called. “What are we waiting for? “ by For King + Country.
“ What are we waiting for? Everybody’s wasting time and nobody’s making more.”.
Thank you for your very profound words, my friend
Thanks for the song recommendation Darcy. I loved the lyrics…so many great lines.
Very powerful and very well said.
Thanks Jim.
Hard to hear this is happening for you. Even amid that, though, you frankly yet generously share your insights, moving readers to reflect and act. How powerful. Best to you.
Thanks Marilyn. I really appreciate your support. I write to remind myself too. If I write it instead of just think it, it feels more ‘concrete’ and I’m more likely to act on my own thoughts and words.
Such good advice.
Thanks Alberta.
Reading this brought back my own memories of funerals and the pleasure I get to visit graveyards. My Mom would take me to the graveyards in North Hatley and Sherbrooke QC, when I was a kid. Reedsville Cemetary in NH is where she is laid to rest now, along with my Dad. To walk around and feel the energy from the family gone before us is like medicine to my soul. When I look at my little family of two daughters, husbands, and grandchildren I wonder what the future holds for them. In the meantime I will move closer to them and fill the time with building memories and sharing the love. Thank you for this post Colleen. Warm hugs.
Janyce. I love imagining you as a little girl, wandering the graveyards in those little Quebec villages. It sounds lovely to have such a generational connection.
Hugs back to you.