Italian Wakes

Let me open by saying this: death is not funny. I genuinely miss all those who have passed. In no way would I ever want to tarnish lives that are lost. Death is not funny—neither are funerals. But the customs surrounding the funerals and wakes are—the customs are the things that make me scratch my head and giggle.

My ethnic background is Italian. Italians—particularly old school ones-- enforce certain post-death rules. There is a secret code to follow. The first one is that at all times during the 1 ½ or 2 day wake (which is way too long), behavior must be as dramatically somber as possible-- not crying is disrespectful—jocularity of any kind  is forbidden. Fainting and sobbing is not just tolerated, it is venerated. And clothing matters. It must be black—even ebony is not black enough. And the big chairs dictate who is the most mournful. The high back upholstered chairs establish the hierarchy of sorrow--God forbid a lesser mourner dares to sit in one of the big chairs or sits in a row too close to the coffin when the priest comes in to do his thing—it’s a grand faux pas. It creates drama of a different kind.

And the quality of the coffin is studied as well as the size and type of flowers. And then there is the visitor’s book and the prayer cards (I call them the attendance list and party favor that no one wants but feels obligated to take.)

When I go to wakes with my mother I always get in trouble with her. It is inevitable. She does not share my point of view.  The rub usually begins with her asking the first simple question: What are you going to wear? To which I usually say I don’t know—wake clothes ? And then she gets mad. She wants me to restrain my snarky-ness. I believe that the fact that I am showing up should be good enough—it isn’t a runway show. And I do not care what flowers were chosen or the variety of wood for the coffin—all that extraneous stuff doesn’t interest me. Dead is dead. Nor I do not care if the coffin is open or closed. I trust that when the coffin is closed that there is a body in there—I do not need to view it as proof that someone is gone or to  say good bye. In fact I really hate how the living judge how good or not good the body looks or the outfit the corpse is wearing in the coffin. It’s so absurd.

And I like the idea of cremation. I have been afraid of worms all of my life—I like the idea that organisms of decay will be denied my body for dinner once they have found their way through the metal shield surrounding the interred coffin. I like the idea that someone who loved me will sprinkle my ashes in places that I enjoyed or would have enjoyed-- or even keep the urn on display on their mantel.

And unless someone is having a mass said specifically for me, I do not want anyone sending mass cards-- I suspect mass cards are a scam—they are present day indulgences of the Catholic Church. If I could, I would have little bistro tables at my wake where cappuccino and chocolate chip biscotti and chianti are served. And I would have basil hung all around the room—I love the smell of basil. And my friends and family would talk about how funny I was. And only the people who genuinely liked me would come to celebrate. My dogs as well as any other animal I had loved would be there too greeting everyone.  And there would be as many tears of laughter as tears of sorrow. No one would count the number of flower arrangements or how many names are in the book. It would be irreverently reverent—like me.

My cousin Betty—my godmother and surrogate big sister—is a lot like me. When she dies she wants a themed wake—Betty Boop with goodie bags filled with tootsie rolls. I am pretty sure my mother would not approve---neither would my mother-in-law.