The Good Funeral Guide

Oh, young fellows, do take warning
While you this tale I tell
I tell it from a heart that’s sad and sore

Come and learn from me a lesson
As I have learned it well
From the crepe upon the little cabin door

Oh, I left my home and kindred
And those who loved me well
It broke my mother’s heart, the life I led

Then, from her there came a letter
To say she wished me well
Now I tell to you the pleading words I read

“I’m getting old and feeble
My hair will soon be grey
And every day I’m waiting at the door

Oh, my boy, come home to see me
Before I go away
Oh, I fear I’ll never see you anymore”

But I did not heed the warning
I’d hear it day by day
Just wasting time on women, wine and song

But this kind of sinful pleasure
Lasts only for a day
And the sorrows of repentance last so long

Then at last I journied homeward
And as I climbed the hill
I thought to see my mother’s face once more

But as I passed through the gateway
My aching heart stood still
There was crepe upon the little cabin door

Oh, young fellows, do take warning
You’ve heard this tale I tell
You’ve heard it from a heart that’s sad and sore

Come and learn from me a lesson
As I have learned it well
From the crepe upon the little cabin door

Thompson / Guernsey, sung by Vernon Dalhart, 1928

Muffle the bell, our ‘Nellie’s dying, soon she’ll close her soft blue eyes;
Kiss her pale lips now sweetly parted, kiss our darling e’er she dies;
How we’ll miss her little footsteps, and her voice we loved so dear.
Kiss our sweet darling, kiss her gently, e’er the angel forms draw near.

Chorus.
Muffle the bell our Nellie’s dying, soon she’ll close her soft blue eyes;
Kiss her pale lips now sweetly parted, kiss our darling e’er she dies.

Muffle the bell, our Nellie’s dying, softly tread upon the floor,
Speak low, for fear you’ll wake our darling, soon we’ll see her nevermore;
She was all that made home happy, with her little words of love.
Listen! the angels now are calling from their home in heaven above.

Chorus.
Muffle the bell, our Nellie’s dying, soft and lower prows her breath.
Only a little moment later she’ll be called away in death;
Angel forms are hov’ring near her, soft we hear their footsteps tread;
Hush! our sweet darling breathes no longer, darling little Nellie’s dead.

Muffle The Bell, Our Nellie’s Dying. Words and Music by James E Stewart 1881 

Bouquet of Violets by Edouard Manet

Posted by Kathryn Edwards

AT no time does solemnity so possess our souls as when we stand deserted at the brink of darkness into which our loved one has gone. And the last place in the world where we would look for comfort at such a time is in the seeming artificiality of etiquette; yet it is in the moment of deepest sorrow that etiquette performs its most vital and real service. 

So begins the chapter on Funerals in Emily Posts’ 1922 guide to etiquette here. Born into a privileged American home, Emily (1872–1960) had turned to writing after the divorce that resulted from her prominent banker husband’s extra-marital affairs with chorus girls. 

The resultant industry under the Post banner continues to this day, with the 18th edition of the Etiquette book published last autumn, the ‘funerals’ chapter having morphed into ‘Loss, grieving and condolences’, and the locus of much activity to do with funerals now clearly taking place outside the home. 

But back in 1922 the list of death-related functions in the home for which etiquette had a prescription includes ‘muffling the bell’, a notion so quaint that I turned to it at once.  The practice is intended to signal to callers that the house is in mourning, so that the bell will not be rung unnecessarily nor long. 

As a rule the funeral director hangs crepe streamers on the bell; white ones for a child, black and white for a young person, or black for an older person. …

If they prefer, the family sometimes orders a florist to hang a bunch of violets or other purple flowers on black ribbon streamers, for a grown person; or white violets, white carnations—any white flower without leaves—on the black ribbon for a young woman or man; or white flowers on white gauze or ribbon for a child.   

This grace doesn’t last long, however: the instruction is that whoever is taking care of the house should remove this mourning emblem while the funeral cortege is at the cemetery.  But while it lasts, what a lovely idea. 

For readers who find our diet worthy, dull and occasionally pretentious, here’s something to gladden your eye from the New York Daily News:

A “creepy” Colorado father accused of pawning gold teeth he took from cremated remains at several funeral homes claims he did it to provide for his eight children, police said.

Police said Adrian David Kline also swiped gold crowns from corpses before they were embalmed.

Go get it all here. 

“I cannot stress this enough. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being interested in mortality and death. Don’t let anyone ever tell you you are “sick” or “morbid” or “deviant.” It is patently untrue. Death is where every single one of us will end up. To feign disinterest in such a fundamental thing is denial, plain and simple. Read everything you can about death. Read the philosophers, read the scientists. Figure out what you (not your culture or your religion) believe happens to a body after death and what rituals make sense to you. In this case, ignorance is not bliss. With death, ignorance is fear.”

From ‘On the Fear of Death’ by  Caitlin Doughty. Read it all; it’s brilliant — here.

Posted by Vale

The late, very great and much lamented Jake Thackray with his Last Will and Testament. By the way, isn’t You Tube a marvel? This version is awfully close to the black and white On the Braden Beat Saturday night image that flickers in my memory. Astonishing to find it preserved here:

I, the under-mentioned, by this document
Do declare my true intentions, my last will, my testament.
When I turn up my toes, when I rattle my clack, when I agonise,
I want no great wet weepings, no tearing of hair, no wringing of hands,
No sighs, no lack-a-days, no woe-is-me’s and none of your sad adieus.
Go, go, go and get the priest and then go get the booze, boys.

Death, where is thy victory? Grave, where is thy sting?
When I snuff it bury me quickly, then let carousels begin -
But not a do with a few ham sandwiches, a sausage roll or two and “A small port wine, please”.
Roll the carpet right back, get cracking with your old Gay Gordons
And your knees up, shake it up, live it up, sup it up, hell of a kind of a time.
And if the coppers come around, well, tell them the party’s mine, boys.

Let best beef be eaten, fill every empty glass,
Let no breast be beaten, let no tooth be gnashed.
Don’t bother with a fancy tombstone or a big-deal angel or a little copper flower pot:
Grow a dog-rose in my eyes or a pussy-willow
But no forget-me-nots, no epitaphs, no keepsakes; you can let my memory slip.
You can say a prayer or two for me soul then, but – make it quick, boys.

Lady, if your bosom is heaving don’t waste your bosom on me.
Let it heave for a man who’s breathing, a man who can feel, a man who can see.
And to my cronies: you can read my books, you can drive around in my motor car.
And you can fish your trout with my fly and tackle, you can play on my guitar,
And sing my songs, wear my shirts. You can even settle my debts.
You can kiss my little missus if she’s willing then, but – no regrets, boys.

Your rosebuds are numbered;
Gather them now for rosebuds’ sake.
And if your hands aren’t too encumbered
Gather a bud or two for Jake.

If you want to find out more about Jake, there’s lots here.

Proof positive that most Twitter users need to get a life is evidenced by the present fad for tweeting rumours of celeb deaths.

When, last December, Jon Bon Jovi became aware that the twittersphere was chirruping news of his death he posted a link on @BonJovi to a TwitPic. The photo showed him smiling and holding up a sheet of paper on which he had written: “Heaven looks a lot like New Jersey.”

Posted by Kathryn Edwards

California economist Glen Whitman’s preoccupation with ‘Two Things’ is such fun that it’s no wonder it gets whirled around the papers every now and again, most recently in Saturday’s Guardian.  Its premiss – laid out by a man whom Professor Whitman met in a bar – is this: for every subject, there are only two things you really need to know.  “Everything else is the application of these two things, or just not important.”  

“Oh,” said the professor.  “OK, here are the Two Things about economics. One: Incentives matter. Two: There’s no such thing as a free lunch.”  

Not content to limit the analysis to his own game, Whitman has quizzed those from other worlds to discover the lie of their lands.  These are some of the perspectives he’s been collecting:  

The Two Things about Medicine: 

1.  Do no harm. 

2.  To do any good, you must risk doing harm. 

Dennis  

The Two Things about being an Executive Assistant: 

1.  The boss is always right. 

2.  The boss is always wrong. 

Speedwell  

The Two Things about Marketing: 
 

1. Find out who is buying your product. 


2. Find more buyers like them.

Racehorse  

The Two Things about Writing: 
 

1.  Include what’s necessary. 
 

2.  Leave everything else out. 

Nicholas Kronos  

The Two Things about Civil Engineering: 

1.  Dirt + Water = Mud. 

2.  You can’t push a rope. 

Todd Grotenhuis  

You can see where my thinking’s going: can we usefully hitch a ride? 

Okay, over to you.

What are the Two Things about Arranging a Funeral? 

Answers in a comment box below, please. A cigar will be awarded for the best.  

(spoken:)
Man…
You know I’ve been enjoyin’ things that kings and queens will never have!
In fact kings and queens can never get ‘m.
And they don’t even know about it!
And good times? Mmmmmmmmm-mmh!!

(sung:)
I have had my fun, if I never get well no more (x 2)
Oh my health is fadin’ on me, oh yes I’m goin’ down slow

(spoken:)
Now looka here…
I did not say I was a millionaire…
But I said I have spent more money than a millionaire!
Cause if I had kept all my money that I’d already spent,
I would’ve been a millionaire a looong time ago…
And women? Great Googlie-Mooglie!!

(sung:)
Please write my mother, tell her the shape I’m in (x 2)
Tell her to pray for me, forgive me for my sin

Hat tip to Xpiry