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-conscious. Her dresses were simple. Her makeup was a lipstick bought at the Five and Dime store which was very popular with ladies of her age. It was of a nondescript colour which when applied on the lips, would conform to the wearer’s complexion. 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; you could almost call us a tribe. As we stood, waiting to enter the chapel, a tall man entered the room. All of a sudden, there was an excited buzz amongst the mourners. My Aunt Flora rushed forward to hug and kiss the stranger with tears in her eyes. All the brothers followed suit except for my Uncle Eddie who wore a huge angry scowl on his face and my Uncle Albert, who looked like the cat who had swallowed the cream. 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, we whispered his name to each other. “Uncle Maurice! Uncle Maurice!” He was the black sheep of the family! He had married outside the Jewish faith. Our grandfather, who was a rabbi, ostracized him from the family upon hearing that he had done so. No one was permitted to mention his name in his presence! That was many years ago. In the meantime, Uncle Eddie and Uncle Maurice had a major rift and had not spoken to each other even before he married outside the religion. They had not spoken to each other since. My grandfather passed away in 1957. My grandmother died in 1979. All these years, they all respected my grandfather’s wishes, except perhaps for my Uncle Albert. He certainly had known where to find this brother! After all that excitement, we were ushered into the chapel. The casket was open, which orthodox Jews frowned upon. It simply was not done. I peeked inside it. Was that really my grandmother? Even she would not have recognized herself in that getup! They had dressed her up in a mop hat to cover up where the bone over her right eyebrow had been removed. She was in full makeup, from foundation to blush-on, eyebrow pencil, and lipstick. The only thing missing was perhaps eye shadow! Uncle Eddie rushed to the side of her coffin, looked at her and sobbed, “Doesn’t she look lovely?” Papa’s face looked as if thunderous emotions were battling within him. I could sense Papa getting ready to make an explosive sarcastic remark! I gave him a pleading look. “Not now,” my look said. “Please Papa, not now.” Uncle Eddie had never married. He had taken it upon himself to take care of his mother and grandmother throughout the years. He was an extremely emotional and loving man. With no family of his own, he considered us, his nieces and nephews, his pseudo children. He and my father, being born one after the other, constantly argued with each other. I think they vied for their mother’s attention. I remember them once arguing over my daughter, Jessica. Papa had objected to Uncle Eddie making a comment about her. “You are speaking about my granddaughter!” “I am speaking about my great-niece! I can comment about her as much as I want!” I had just picked them up from my cousin Edmond’s house. This went on all the way till we dropped my uncle off. “My granddaughter! My great-niece!” Now, as we entered, I noticed the chapel was full to capacity. Not a single seat was empty. Some people were even standing against the walls. They were the friends of the brothers and sister. It is always comforting when so many friends acknowledge one’s grief. Soon the services were done. My Grandmother’s body was carried out to the hearse. People climbed into their cars. A long, impressive cortège was formed. We slowly made our way to the cemetery following the hearse. It was a chilly but beautiful day, that October 26, which was also my birthday. The sun was shining. The foliage on the trees was displaying their best autumnal colours brilliantly, as if to bid her the goodbye that she deserved. The well-dressed crowd descended from their cars. The women were elegant in their hats and stylish coats. The men were sleek in their well-tailored suits. There was an air of gentility and sophistication about the crowd. As they exited their cars, they sauntered slowly amongst the graves. They slightly leaned over and peered at some of the inscriptions upon the gravestones. Every once in a while one was heard to exclaim, “Ah! Look who is here!” Or comments like, “Did you know this is where he was buried? He gave his wife such trouble! He was a womanizer, you know! I did not expect that they would be buried next to each other. They had such a stormy marriage!” I looked at Papa and he looked at me. He had a pained look on his face. They were behaving as if they were taking a stroll through a park, as if the gravestones were flowers in a botanical garden, gossiping about this one and that, as if it was not my grandmother’s funeral, but a garden party. It felt as if we were part of a scene from a Fellini movie. The whole funeral was askew. The whole day felt unreal. There was the sudden appearance of an uncle we dared mention only in whispers and had never met; the makeup on my grandmother’s dead face, something she never used whilst alive; the crowds wandering through the graves—to me, all this was quite bizarre! My father could not comprehend the lack of sensitivity amongst that crowd. I noticed him shake his head in bewilderment. I was not sure if it was because he had lost his mother or because the crass behavior of the people who had come to “pay their respects” perplexed him. Almost forty years have passed since that day. It still remains vivid in my mind as if it were a coloured 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.