Cast a cold Eye on Life
on Death
Horseman pass by.
W.B Yeats
“I still don’t
know why I need to go to this funeral.”
I said to my husband when we arrived in the village that balmy summer
night.
I was still very
new to Ireland, and was only just beginning to realise how important funerals
are. Back in the States, funerals tend
to be a very private family business, and a non family member wouldn’t attend
unless they knew the deceased very well.
In the rural areas of Ireland, a funeral is a 3 day affair, and the
whole Parish will attend to sympathise with the family at either the Rosary,
the removal, or the the funeral mass. I
once asked how the family would remember everyone who walked through the
funeral home and offered a sympathising handshake, and I was told that they
would remember who didn’t show up.
These days, the
deceased are kept in the funeral home for the Rosary, and on the second night,
they are removed to the church. The wake
in the family home is an old tradition, but there are still a few who, in their
final wishes, want to be waked in their home. The late Paudie Byrne had such a final wish,
and was being waked at his home which stood midways in a row of attached houses
in the center of the village. The weather
battered, heavy teak door was open, and a few sympathisers lined up to file
through the sitting room, where the deceased Paudie Byrne was laid out in an
Oak casket. As I entered the old house,
the damp, musty air which seemed to have been trapped inside for years, made me
crinkle my nose in attempt to stifle a sneeze.
The doorway to the sitting room was crowded as people attempted to enter
and exit after sympathising with the family members, who were seated on a couch
and in two arm chairs. The coffee table
had been moved to one corner of the room to make adequate space for the coffin,
which was placed in the middle of the tiny room. My husband went in before me and knelt at the
wooden kneeler at the foot end of the coffin.
After his prayer was said, he shook hands with the two older women who
were seated on the couch. I followed and
as I shook hands with the lady who appeared to be the older of the two, was
surprised when she wouldn’t let go.
Instead she started asking me all sorts of questions, such as, “How do
you like it here?” “Have you settled in
yet?” I found it kind of strange and
funny at the same time that family members of the deceased would be asking me
so many questions at the funeral.
“Go on, sit down
here.” Her grip became stronger as she
pointed to the empty spot on the couch.
The lady next to her smiled and nodded in agreement. The next few minutes were quiet as more
people came in to sympathise. In front of
me, I could see the late Paudie in his coffin all waxed and shiny like a new
car. He had been dressed in his best
suit which had probably had been dry cleaned for the occasion. Wooden Rosary beads, which Paudie had
purchased on a trip to Knock, were wrapped around his frail, ashen hands in
eternal prayer. I could hear quiet
murmuring out in the hall. “Oh, how we cut the turf with Paudie that year”.
I looked up from
Paudie and realised my husband was no longer in the room, and I wondered where
he had gone. I gazed around the room to
see an older man, whom I presumed to be Paudie’s brother, falling asleep in an
old, faded arm chair. Directly above him Pope John Paul II, and JFK smiled down from
dusty picture frames on a smoke stained wall.
As I admired JFK’s handsome smile, I was shaken out of the quiet moment
by, “So! You must find it different here.”
The two sisters smiled at me, waiting for a reply. It seemed odd to me, these two sisters of the
late Paudie Byrne, who was laid out before us, were so eager to get to know me
at a time like this.
“Yes.” I replied
softly.
“You’re more used
to the town, so.” Stated the sister who
sat furthest from me.
It seemed as
though everyone thought I was from a city, and I explained that I was in fact
from a country area. I felt awkward
sitting there having this conversation with the mourners. People who came in to
sympathise would give me curious looks and when I began to stand up and excuse
myself when the undertaker’s wife began to recite the Rosary. People crowded into the tiny room and the
hallway all reciting along with Mrs. Hegarty.
It would be disrespectful to walk out now so I quickly sat back down as
the prayer for eternal life began.
“Hail Mary fully
of grace the Lord be with thee, blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is
the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,
now and at the hour of our death, Amen.”
Almost chant like
and monotone, the Hail Mary’s were repeated over and over for each of the
glorious mysteries. Resurrection for
faith, Ascension for hope, and the Descent of the Holy Spirit, inspiring
charity and love. After what seemed an
eternity, I welcomed a tap on the
shoulder from Mrs. Murphy.
“Would you like
to come into the kitchen and have a glass of punch?” She asked.
Oh good, I was
being saved from this awkward situation, and being offered punch...at a
funeral? I envisioned a Crystal punch
bowl in the kitchen, complete with sliced fruit and a fancy ladle. I was soon to discover that “punch” meant hot
whiskey.
The kitchen was
quite a different atmosphere than the sitting room. If one would have entered the home through
the back door, they would have found a party in full swing, and been completely
unaware of the wake in the other room.
Empty bottles of stout sat on the kitchen table and counter tops. Someone had brought in an extra electric
kettle for making pots of tea, and there were a couple of ladies busily putting together platters of various types of sandwiches. There were relatives of the late Paudie who
had travelled from “up the country” and were busy catching up on all the news. As I was still new to the parish, the interviewing
resumed by the people in the kitchen.
Most of them assumed that because I was from the States, that I knew
nothing about farm
animals or farming in general. Several people asked me if I could drive. A couple of ladies suggested that I find “a
little job to get you out of the house.”
An older man, who had probably started
drinking very early, was becoming very obnoxious. He turned me and asked, “Had you ever seen a
dead body before?” His breath reeked of
alcohol and made involuntarily back up. I found the question a little too personal,
bringing up tender emotions. I turned
away and began talking to someone else in attempt to ignore him. “I said have you seen a dead body
before?” He stuck his head into the
conversation I was trying to have. He
was not going to go away until he got his answer. “Well, have you?” He was clearly going to make a scene and all
eyes were on me, all eagerly waiting for my answer. I don’t know why this was so important for
them to know.
“Yes.” I finally said. Seeming strangely satisfied in my response,
the old fella turned away and started talking with someone else. I supposed he was happy with this important
piece of information he got out of the American girl. The party continued on and the platters of sandwiches
were passed around.
Sometime around midnight someone started
the sing song. That’s when another elderly
gentleman asked me, “Do you sing?” and I assured him that I do not sing. I quickly learned that during a singing
session there is a standard etiquette, and that is all chat stops, and everyone
listens. One person stops singing, the
chatting starts again, and then “shh shh shhh!” signalling that someone else is
about to sing.
The signing went on until the wee hours of
the morning, and little by little, people began to quietly leave. Walking past the sitting room, I saw the two
sisters still sitting on the couch, heads bowed. They seemed to be in prayer, but I suspected
that they were dosing. This wake, as it
seemed, was in two parts. In that quiet
sitting room people prayed and kept vigil throughout the night, while in the
kitchen the singing and stories about old Paudie and the “grand” times they had
was a celebration of the life that was.
Catherine Hughes-Teahan
