The Day of My Grandmother’s Funeral
When my grandmother, Immy, passed away, it was just after my brother Jack and Yvonne’s wedding. I was in Los Angeles celebrating the happy event when we received the sad news. Papa and I took the next plane to New York to get here on time for her funeral. Papa loved her profoundly. Even if one’s mother is a hundred two-year-old woman; even though we recognize we cannot live forever, a loss is a loss, and one’s mother’s loss is a devastating one.
My grandmother was a simple woman. She was not what you would call fashion conscientious. Her dresses were simple. Her makeup was a lipstick bought at the Five and Dime store, which was popular with ladies of her age. It was of a nondescript color that would conform to the wearer’s complexion when applied on the lips. She was a modest woman, a good woman. She never had her hair done or had a manicure. Her needs were simple. She was satisfied with her lot. She had borne six sons and a daughter, she had numerous grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She had lived a full life, and now it was time to return to her maker.
We landed in New York the evening before the funeral. We went straight home since Papa was tired and it was late. The next morning, we drove to the funeral chapel in Forest Hills. The brothers and their sister, my father and his siblings, formed one group. My cousins and I, with our spouses, formed another group. With five brothers and a sister, we, the offspring, were an impressive group. As we stood, waiting to enter the chapel, a tall man entered the room, causing an excited buzz amongst the mourners. Aunty Flora rushed forward to hug and kiss the stranger, with tears in her eyes. All the brothers followed suit, except for Uncle Eddie, who wore a huge angry scowl on his face, and Uncle Albert, who looked satisfied.
We, the cousins, were quite puzzled! Who is this man, we asked each other? Then it dawned on us! This was our Uncle Moshi, now called Uncle Maurice, the black sheep of the family who had married outside the Jewish faith. After the excitement, we were ushered into the chapel, where the casket was open, something frowned upon in orthodox Jewish tradition. Uncle Eddie’s emotional reaction added complexity to an already charged atmosphere.
Almost forty years have passed since that day. It still remains vivid in my mind as if it were a colored production of some drama that became indelible in my memory. It awoke all my senses in a rather disturbing way. It felt so bizarre to me. It still does all these many years later.