Not just because it deals with losing your father, for which I offer you sincere sympathy.

But too, because it illustrates the great curses of our age: indifference disguised with fakery. And, apparently, people buying the schtick.

When I was in college, I held a part time job with a firm of funeral directors. I answered the phone, and helped in the office. It was one of the best jobs I ever had.

It was a family firm, but of considerable size. We were the so-called Catholic Biggie in our medium-sized city. I think about the several families who lived in, and depended on, the business. There could not be a greater contrast.

There was no formal induction program or lengthy training, beyond the basics. (e.g. Always ask vital question number one: has the doctor been?)

But they lived values which I picked up quickly. The best demeanour for a funeral director should be one of quiet efficiency. Make sure that everyting is taken care of so that friends and loved ones could grieve in their own, private, personal way. Place no expectations on the family–no extra ceremonial obligation beyond that which they choose.

They would have been appalled at the idea of unveiling ashes in some fake ceremony. The men who worked there would deliver them to your home, personally–in fact, most of the arrangements were made in the deceased’s family home. It was kinder, more familiar, more comforting, less strange.

Just after I joined, they renovated the building. No green velvet nor gaudy trimmings; a skillful architect was asked to create a modern building of gentle light, which shielded occupants against the noise of the busy city street outside. It was a friendly, welcoming atmosphere.

But it was the men themselves–they were all men, in those days–who taught me the most. They were quiet, unassuming fellows, but with a natural sincerity and an interest in the people they helped. They had a natural warmth that seemed to calm the most anxious or troubled of the bereaved. Something which the Charon-in-a-cheap-suit may never learn.

The idea of adding extra drama to the occasion, such as the unveiling of the ashes in a contrived ash-unveiling room, would have been anathema. What families want at this time is less drama, not more.

Modern funeral directors encourage drama, though, because these flourishes give a customer the impression of extra value-for-money. But more important, funereal pomp and circumstance has taken the place of natural, unaffected warmth. Your Charon didn’t have to look you in the eye, sense how he could be of help, or perhaps provide a moment of personal comfort. No, he stood back. The ceremony distracted you from the fact that his suit was not just cheap, but empty.

My employers eventually became the victim of their own internalised belief in the patriarchy. As the lucrative market for expensive Italian Catholic funerals evaporated, a new competitor emerged–an all female firm. (I suspect Gertrude Strine alluded to them in her post–these events did take place in Australia). My bosses looked long and hard at employing female funeral directors, but in their sexist way, convinced themselves that only a middle-aged man could display the calm, warm authority necessary. Of course, they overlooked the fact that the majority of surviving spouses were widows and not widowers, who often preferred to deal with a woman. The next generation wasn’t wholly interested in the business, the firm faltered a little, and eventually it was sold to a conglomerate.

Sorry to clog up your coment box with such a long post, Twisty, but your story did really make me reflect on those times, now decades ago. Thank you for writing it.

We, however, were not subjected to the actual director’s unction, and I shudder with sympathy at the ordeal of the Faster offspring. Tote bag: best touch ever. Unbelievable.

Me, my dad and uncles took my grandfather’s cardboard box of ashes to Granpa’s dock on Lake Austin. My dad took a fistful of the ashes and put it in an envelope and handed it to me, then dumped the ashes into the lake. Then my uncle tipped the box of ashes of Ted, my Grandpa’s dog into the lake (this box had been waiting around for a number of years).

Grandpa on death: “I think that when you die, you’re just dead, dead as a dead dog.”

I’m also prone to gallows humor. My mom passed away in January, in a hospital. Moments after she died, my father asked me to remove her wedding ring, which proved to be near impossible since she’s worn it all her life.

I tried lotion, soap, more lotion, more soap - all to no avail. I looked up to my father, and aunt and uncle hovering behind him, and announced that “we’ll have to cut it off” - and quickly added, “the ring; not the finger.” Everyone gasped.

This ramble is all to say that I’m sad to hear about your dad but glad that you seem to be taking it in fine Twisty style.