Dealing with death is another
rite of passage
I was thinking the other day about Marjean
Sheckler and the kiss we shared in the high school gymnasium in
that little town in Iowa where we grew up. There was nothing I could do to avoid it.
We were in a high school drama, and the script called for a kiss
between my character and Marjeans. The first kiss came at
dress rehearsal when the high school English teacher ordered us
to become intimate. So we did. But I could sense in Marjeans demeanor
a certain reluctance, which probably had something to do with
her boyfriend standing in the wings. It probably also had to do
with the fact that I was too eager and much too immature to be
kissing a girl right square on the mouth. We kissed at rehearsal, and then we had
to repeat the act at two performances, one Friday and Saturday
evening. In Fridays version, we kissed amidst oohs and aahs
from the audience of 100 people. I thought this was a sign that
I had performed admirably. Saturday went about the same way, with Marjean
standing stiff and straight and me bending to the task. It wasnt until years later that I
figured out that the oohs and aahs had nothing to do with my expertise
as a kisser, but rather that an audience is always nervous when
private acts are performed in public. I also figured out my severe apprehension
a sweaty, trembling nervousness was due in part
to the undeniable fact that Marjean was the undertakers
daughter. Of course, I wondered what it would be like
to kiss the mouth of a girl who probably saw dead bodies, weeping
relatives and funerals every day of the week. So I was thinking about Marjean the other
day as I read the latest book by Thomas Lynch, a bona fide undertaker,
an excellent writer and an all-around nice guy. In the essay I
was reading, Lynch was talking about funeral conglomerates, those
ol bad corporations that are trying to make big bucks off
our deaths. I sensed that Lynch was not entirely against
these mega-companies that deal in tragedy. But Lynch wants people
to get a square deal, and he doesnt want anyone getting
bamboozled during their weakest moment. There is a fear that all
those family-owned funeral homes, when they become part of a giant
conglomerate, will put profit ahead of compassion. A funeral is not a great investment;
it is a sad moment in a familys history, Lynch writes.
It is not a hedge against inflation; it is a rite of passage.
... It is not an exercise in salesmanship; it is an exercise in
humanity. Both the death-care consumers and the death-care conglomerates
ignore such distinctions with peril. Lynchs new book of essays, Bodies
in Motion and at Rest, (W.W. Norton and Co., $23.95) is a mastery
of ultimate emotion. He talks about God and his control of that
moment we all resist when death overtakes us. And yet Lynch is
never grim because in this Irishman there is a sense of humor
that transcends tragedy and searches instead for a moral victory. In one of the essays in his new book, Lynch
writes about his divorce, which happened nearly 30 years ago,
with such honesty that a knowing reader is left weeping and laughing.
There are so many blessed moments, such as the one when mother
and father bring the children together for the sad news. The next day we assembled the children
... and told them all the ordinary lies failed marrieds must tell
the ones theyve failed the most how everything was
going to be all right and that even though Mommy and Daddy didnt
love each other anymore we both loved them more than anything
in the world. ... They were ten, nine, six and four when it happened.
The day sits like a lump of coal in their lives, sometimes smoldering,
sometimes dark and cool, but always there, always ready to be
reddened by forces still out of our control. Anyone who has been through a moment like
that with children knows the damage that has been done, knows
the scars that disfigure life and the questions that will always
plague them. These essays are full of life, the happy moments
but also the honest grieving. And in the end we discover that life is
wrapped around those things; kissing the undertakers daughter,
grieving for the ones we love and discovering the brightness just
around the corner from death.
Clark D. Morphew
Posted For July 13, 2000