The Family Pecking Order -- A Memoir

Chapter 1: The Funeral

Walking into the funeral home in my hometown felt familiar, bringing back memories of the last time I was here ... and the many other times before today.  

Our parents brought me, my brother, and my four sisters to this mortuary many times over the years I was growing up. After grandparents, aunts, uncles, and other relatives died. We also came to view the remains of family friends and acquaintances when they passed away. Those of Irish heritage know this traditional ritual is called a "Wake". My brother, sisters and I are of Irish blood on my father's side. My family knew a lot of people in the area and a lot of people knew us, our grandparents, our aunts and uncles, and many of our cousins. If a local family did not have one or more members representing their family at the viewings and funerals in this small community, it was considered to be something very close to an insult.

With this unwritten rule in place, my father was never content to come with just our mother, but always insisted that the proper thing to do was to bring the whole family. So over time, the deaths that are part of life were the reason for me and my siblings to have been in this funeral home so often. Nevertheless, during my childhood, it was always a daunting and fearful experience.

I grew up in a small farming community in the beautiful rolling hills of southern Indiana, living there until my high school graduation at age 16. When I grew up, a child started First Grade at the tender age of 5. There was no Pre-K or Kindergarten to prepare a child for full-time school. You just got right to it. I did well in school, loved learning, and graduated from high school as a member of the National Honor Society. But not having the financial wherewithal to go to college, I could hardly wait to leave home and find my future.

The morning after our high school graduation, my twin sister Margaret and I left home together. We were so eager to get away from this hick town and start our "real" lives. We undoubtedly disappointed our parents with our decision to leave so quickly after graduation. It must have been difficult and hurtful for them to support our youthful impetuosity and allow us to go. After all, we were only 16 and not of an age to make this kind of a decision. They had the legal right to stop us. But knowing from our words and actions that we were determined to strike out on our own, they did not try to dissuade us but let us go with no harsh words or recriminations. I feel ashamed now realizing how selfish and insensitive we were to their feelings. Our only thought was to do what we wanted. So we left home and never looked back.

Fortunately for us, two neophytes who really had no clue and certainly no business doing what we were doing, we would not be totally on our own in the "big city". For the past several years, our two oldest sisters had been living and working in a mid-sized city in Ohio. My twin and I were able to stay with them for several months until we both found jobs at a large Catholic university and moved into our own apartment.

Before describing the most recent visit to my hometown's funeral home, let me tell you about the last time. I was there to pay my final respects to Uncle Fatty, the youngest of my Daddy's eight brothers and one of my favorite uncles. His given name was Marion but he was nicknamed "Fatty". Rightly so I guess because he was such a big, fat baby. Good Lord, he weighed 16 pounds at birth! His Irish mother, my paternal grandmother, was a tiny woman, standing somewhere around five feet tall. Uncle Fatty was her last baby. She must have been glad that her childbearing years were finally over after having given birth to fifteen children. She may have even lost a child at some point since infant mortality was high in those days. If other babies were lost, I never heard it talked about.

The tag of "Fatty" stuck to Marion throughout his life but didn't fit him much beyond his early childhood. You would know what I mean if you had ever seen his 6' 5", gangly, Abe Lincoln, slab-like body. He reached his full height around the age of 15. Then his nickname should have been changed to "Skinny", or "Beanpole", or maybe "Slim". He never filled out with any substantial weight but was tall and lanky and looked like he hadn't had a good meal in days and could use some fattening up. For as long as I can remember though, he was never called anything but "Fatty". To me, my siblings, and all my cousins, he was our "Uncle Fatty" and special to each of us in one way or another.