Does This Mean You'll See Me Naked?

Copyright © 2011 by Robert D. Webster

Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

Cover design by The Book Designers

Cover images © iphotographer/iStockphoto.com

Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering legal, accounting, or other professional service. If legal advice or other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought.—
From a Declaration of Principles Jointly Adopted by a Committee of the American Bar Association and a Committee of Publishers and Associations

This book is not intended as a substitute for medical advice from a qualified physician. The intent of this book is to provide accurate general information in regard to the subject matter covered. If medical advice or other expert help is needed, the services of an appropriate medical professional should be sought.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

Published by Sourcebooks, Inc.

P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

(630) 961-3900

Fax: (630) 961-2168

www.sourcebooks.com

Originally published in 2008 by iUniverse Star.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Webster, Robert D.

Does this mean you'll see me naked? : field notes from a funeral director / by Robert D. Webster.

p. cm.

Originally published: Bloomington, IN : IUniverse, 2008.

1. Undertakers and undertaking—Ohio—Anecdotes, 2. Funeral rites and ceremonies—Ohio. 3. Funeral homes—Ohio. I. Title.

HD9999.U53U597 2011

363.7'5092—dc22

[B]

2011002336

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Afterword

About the Author

Back Cover

Much appreciation to Colleen Armstrong, for her push and encouragement to finish this work.

And a special thank-you goes to Cindy Blizzard Browning, for her comment that led to the title of this book.

I once buried a pickup truck. I've also handled the funeral plans for 4,500 people, which you'd expect for someone who has more than thirty-three years of experience in the death-care industry. You just might not expect a graveside service for a Ford.

But those of my ilk—and call us what you like: undertakers, embalmers, morticians, funeral directors, or death-care providers—would understand that, unique as it is, this request is all part of a day's work.

I sat down with an elderly man one morning to discuss his funeral plans. The gentleman caught me off guard when he told me he wanted to be buried in the front seat of his Ford pickup truck. When he emphatically assured me that he was not kidding, an amazing discussion occurred.

He had already arranged with a cemetery to purchase two grave spaces to accommodate his truck, a vehicle measuring nineteen feet long and sixty-nine inches wide. He handed me a contract from the cemetery to prove that he had in fact purchased the two graves and a custom-made concrete grave liner, and he pointed out on the contract some specific instructions from the cemetery. That is, the cemetery would honor this unique burial only if the truck was first delivered to a mechanic who would agree to drain all the fluids and remove the battery. After I called a repair shop to obtain such an estimate, we finalized our deal.

The gentleman died a few months later, and I honored his requests. We conducted a visitation and funeral ceremony as usual, with the gentleman reposing in a rental casket. After the funeral service, the pallbearers lifted him out of the casket, and we placed him onto a mortuary cot. The cot was rolled outside to the waiting pickup truck, the pallbearers lifted him into the front seat, and the truck was then pulled up onto a flatbed tow truck. That tow truck, the hearse for the day, led the way in procession to the cemetery. Upon arrival, the pickup truck was lowered to ground level, and then a large construction crane positioned nearby lowered the truck into the grave.

Sometimes it's the request that's unique, but sometimes it's another thing entirely.

My son and I removed one elderly woman from her residence, transported her to the funeral home, and placed her on the preparation room table. We removed her clothing and placed it into a shopping bag to return to the family. When the woman's family arrived, we finalized arrangements and came to the discussion of payment. When I first began my career as a funeral director, I was almost apologetic to bereaved families when discussing the funeral bill. I genuinely felt bad to have to assault them with yet another, perhaps uncomfortable, aspect of the funeral process. After all, it was sobering and sad enough that the family before me had lost their loved one, and I had to tactfully determine whether payment would be forthcoming.

The elderly lady's daughter quickly stopped me midsentence to say, “You already have Mom's funeral money.”

I was taken aback. Had her mother prearranged and prepaid, and I hadn't found her file? Had she assigned her life insurance to the funeral home already? Was her funeral money in a trust at a bank? Had she transferred a plan from another funeral home to me?

No—it was much less complicated than that.

“You removed Mom's clothes, didn't you?” the daughter asked. “Her funeral money is in her brassiere.”

Sure enough, the woman had sewn a pocket inside each cup of her bra and had deposited $3,000 in each side.

The daughter explained that her mother had told her years ago not to worry about her funeral expenses, that she had set aside money for such a purpose. Her mother usually kept the money in a bureau drawer, but as the grandchildren got older and more inquisitive when visiting, she was concerned that some innocent rummaging might reveal her cache. Therefore, she altered her bras, equipping them with pockets to accommodate her stash. The daughter further stated that on several occasions her mother had commented, “Don't forget, my funeral money is right here,” and cupped her hands to her chest.

These kinds of things are what really go on after you're dead.

When the telephone rings in the middle of the night, my semi-awake mind instantly buzzes into action. Since I have a business phone right next to my bed, and I happen to be a very light sleeper, I have no problem answering and sounding as if I had already been awake for hours. I have discovered that even after thirty years in the funeral business, I don't mind being jolted from sleep.

After I hang up, I sit on the edge of the bed and make a decision. If the death has occurred at a hospital or nursing home, then I will take a shower, get dressed, and get moving. If the death has occurred at a private residence, then I will simply wet down my hair, comb it as well as I can, get dressed, and
really
get moving—a bereaved family is waiting.

The location of the deceased also determines which vehicle I'll use. I can accomplish a hospital or nursing home call with a minivan. A residence requires a hearse. Why? Many years ago, the son of a man who had expired at home was most upset when my assistant and I arrived in a Chevrolet van. As we pulled the mortuary cot out of the back, he exclaimed, horrified, “You came to get my father in a truck?” After that, I resolved never again to attend to a residence call in anything but a hearse.

After working at other funeral homes for more than twenty-five years, I built my own funeral home in 2001, and I have developed my own sense of how I prefer to perform certain tasks. During the drive from my home to the funeral parlor to retrieve the necessary equipment, I make certain observations concerning the call. Does the surname of the deceased sound familiar? Perhaps we have served the family before. Did the family pay their bill the last time? Do I remember anything else about them? Which cemetery did they use? We already have two other deaths this week; which day will these folks request for the funeral?

These and many more thoughts bombard me while on the road in the middle of the night, with only police officers and drunks out there for company. I arrive at the funeral home, greet my assistant, load up the mortuary cot, and off we go. As a teenager, when I assisted my older brother with such duties, he would look over at me as I sat in the passenger seat of our 1968 Cadillac hearse, excited and curious, and he would remark, “And so it begins…” Indeed, it was the start of a long, painful odyssey we would traverse with a grieving family—beginning with the removal of the deceased and ending with the placement of that dead body in its grave.

It's an odyssey that started two centuries ago. The term undertaker was born in the 1800s, when farmers of means discovered that, for a fee, someone was willing to care for their dead. As opposed to those in the immediate household caring for their own deaths in the family, as was the tradition at the time, a family with sufficient resources could call on the local cabinetmaker or wood craftsman to construct a coffin. Whether lacking the necessary carpentry skills or just out of a desire to eliminate such a disheartening task, folks began to reach out to someone independent of the family.

One William Bookbinder, a successful wheat farmer from Coffeyville, Kansas, experienced the death of his beloved wife, Mary. In 1816 Bookbinder traveled to his friend Woodrow Mays, the lumberyard operator in town, and asked Mays whether he would be interested in performing a “grave undertaking” on his behalf. After agreeing on a price for the death care of Mary and the price of the coffin, the use of a wagon and horses, and the digging of the grave, Mays initiated the requested duties. Mays performed his undertaking duties with such tact and proficiency that his fellow townspeople called on him for his specialized services on many more occasions.

Undertaking became a somewhat lucrative sideline for the enterprising businessman of the day. The cabinetmaker and furniture store owner, the dry goods and general store proprietor, and even the livery stable operator all made the transition to undertaker. Cabinetmakers and furniture store purveyors naturally had access to better lumber and the needed craftsmen to build coffins; the dry goods store could provide nice material to line the unadorned box; and the liveryman owned the backboards, wagons, and teams of horses for transportation.

Those cabinetmakers who constructed coffins obviously could not conduct funeral services in their own workshops, however. Livery stable operators who provided horses for funeral carriages could offer little better. So what did American folks in the late 1800s decide to do? They went to church—always a good place for any gathering of mourners. (The unchurched could opt for graveside-only services.) Meanwhile, enterprising undertakers opened storefronts in downtown areas, with their furniture establishments on one side and their funeral parlors right next door. Picture windows facing the street gave passersby an opportunity to view the latest coffins, displayed vertically so that they could inspect the plushest interior options. Since many folks of that era could not read, businesses used symbols, like paintings of horses or horseshoes for the blacksmith or liveryman, for example, or a frothy-headed glass of beer above the swinging doors of the local saloon. The residents of the era recognized the undertaker's establishment as having a picture of a coffin as part of his signage. As more organized and more elaborate funerals came into vogue, undertakers expanded even more by purchasing large, mansionlike homes so that they could live upstairs and conduct business downstairs.

When the automobile arrived in the early 1900s, leading undertakers immediately seized the advantage. A motorized hearse to carry a casket to the cemetery was a source of immense pride and fueled competitive fires among many funeral parlors. Another potential source of revenue soon galloped into mind: Why not use the hearse for an ambulance on occasions when the funeral business was slow? The infirm could be transported to the hospital for treatment and then return home in a fine conveyance—complete with the undertaker's name emblazoned on that vehicle's sides. When Grandma eventually died, which firm do you think the family called to conduct her funeral service? It was definitely a win-win situation.

Ambulance services became such a staple in the funeral industry that major hearse manufacturers were soon building what they termed
combinations
. A hearse-ambulance on a Cadillac chassis had reversible rollers in the rear casket compartment. The rollers allowed for a casket to slide into the rear of the hearse, yet they could also disappear into the floor to easily accommodate an ambulance cot. Anyone who has ever attended a funeral will instantly recognize the genius behind this concept.

In just a few short years, the undertaker would be introduced to the greatest innovative technique—one that changed the funeral business from a mere sideline to the professional and respected industry we know today: embalming. You might think it's the selection of fine coffins, and other impressive undertaking equipment, yet none of that matters if the deceased human remains rotting in that fine coffin.

The funeral business is about the body. In the early undertaker's day, the body was the focal point, not the coffin or the undertaker's caring attitude. Today, though, much is made about the great strides achieved in casket design and innovation, funeral home amenities, and aftercare provided to bereaved families. All of that is well and good, yet today more than ever, the dead human body should be the ultimate focus of the funeral industry.

So why on earth would anyone want to work with dead people in the first place? I have been asked that question more times than I can count.

Actually, working with the deceased is probably the smallest facet of the entire funeral process. Far more time and attention are spent with the bereaved family. So I'll simply repeat what funeral directors in the United States have been telling the public for nearly two hundred years: I provide a very essential and valuable service. In that regard, what I do for a living is a mere step away from practicing medicine, teaching first grade, or hoisting a fire hose. Undertakers are as devoted to helping people in need as people in those other professions.

The older I become, the more I realize how important that role is, especially when I see so much pain in the eyes of surviving family members. My taking charge becomes even more vital when I am acquainted with or personally related to the deceased. Once I dealt with the deaths of my classmates' grandparents, and now I am caring for their parents. Although I certainly dislike facing close friends who have lost loved ones, I also know that most are very pleased that their undertaker is someone they know.

I was tested severely, however, in 1992, when my niece, still in her twenties, tragically lost her husband. The two were newlyweds, the handsomest of couples. My niece was summoned to the hospital, unaware that her husband was already dead. She arrived, assuming that he had merely injured himself on the job.

When informed of her husband's death, she was asked which funeral home she preferred. Still devastated, she told the nurse, “You'll have to call my uncle, Bob Webster.” Upon my arrival at the hospital, my niece was visibly relieved that a family member would handle things. That tragic death left a mark on me that endures to this day—but although she was heartbroken, I was glad to offer some small degree of comfort.

The same thoughts returned recently when the thirty-six-year-old son of a close friend died. My friend is an upbeat, caring gentleman who always greets my children with huge, heartfelt bear hugs. Although reluctant to face him at such a horrible time, I was gratified when he told me that he would not have allowed anyone else to handle the funeral arrangements. He was reassured, knowing that I would treat his son and family just as I would my own.

Despite these stories, the general public continues to respond to what I do with morbid fascination. Overall, I think I'm a pretty normal guy. I go to parties. I enjoy baseball and backyard barbecuing. I tell lots of corny jokes—just ask my kids. I don't wear a black cape. I don't have fangs or talons.

I believe that hang-ups about funeral directors have much to do with our culture's obsession with youth, beauty, fitness—all that means a total denial of death. The acknowledgment that we funeral directors exist and can over time earn a substantial living confronts everyone with the jarring, indisputable evidence that—oh my gosh!—people die.

That they do, every day. And that's where I come in. These are my stories.