A brief history of undertakers

By Richard Rawlinson

In medieval times, the word ‘undertaker’ was used vaguely for anyone undertaking a task, whether house building or funeral work. It doesn’t derive from taking the deceased six feet under but, by the 17th century, the term ‘funeral undertaker’ was being abbreviated to ‘undertaker’ and, as this association became widespread, folk in other trades stopped calling themselves ‘undertakers’. Death by association.

I’m not sure when undertakers started referring to themselves as funeral directors, but my hunch is it was in the early-20th century, or perhaps the 19th century? The title reflects the public, ceremonial role played on the big day itself, conjuring up an image of somber-suited bearers and polished hearses. It perhaps glosses over the preparation done before arriving at this stage: the embalming or ‘hygiene treatment’; the safekeeping in the Chapel of Rest or cold storage in the ‘hub’.

Then again, you expect a director to be an efficient administrator, entrusted with booking venues and celebrants, and answering individual needs. You also expect to talk business with a director, to buy their products and services. This is in stark contrast to the word ‘mortician’, someone you envisage wearing rubber gloves and performing rather unpleasant acts in a back room. Ironically, the American trade coined the word, ‘mortician’, believing it sounded less gloomy than ‘funeral director’—surely only to those who didn’t know the Latin root of ‘mort’? They also thought it had a professional ring. Exactly, it sounds rather too much like ‘physician’.

Early undertakers tended to work as builders, joiners and carpenters, skills that translated to coffin-making at times of death in the village. This was often the case even in the early 20th century. The family would inform their doctor first to certify a death, and then the local ‘layer out’—usually a woman—would help carry out the ‘last offices’, attending to the needs of both bereaved and deceased. They would call on the parish priest to perform the Last Rites, and summon the undertaker to take measurements for a bespoke coffin, made in haste from sanded and polished hardwood, and sealed inside with wax and bitumen to avoid leakage.

The undertaker would return to the house to deliver the coffin, sometimes having to remove a window as the door was too narrow. The deceased, clothed in their best nightdress or Sunday suit, would then rest in the front parlour until the funeral, usually held three or four days after death. Sweet smelling flowers were placed around the room to absorb bad odours and the undertaker would visit to check on any unpleasantness. Embalming was only performed for wealthy clients, and it wasn’t until the 1950s that Chapels of Rest became established in funeral homes.

The typical cost of a funeral in the mid-1940s was about £20, which included the making of the coffin, providing four bearers, hearse and car, church fees and grave digger. The fee of half a crown was paid to the person who performed the ‘laying out’. With the average wage being only £2.75 per week, the cost of funerals today is comparable.

   

Kicking the bucket in Swaziland

The Times of Swaziland is in a lather about deceaseds, feckless young men and undertakers. Terrific stuff, this.

They could care less how they lead their sorry lives. 

All they want is to get a great send-off when they ultimately kick the proverbial bucket.

It’s so discouraging.

Funeral undertakers are having the time of their lives, as a result – if you excuse the pun.

They are taking full advantage of the sad situation and making a killing – if you forgive me for using a pun yet again. 

Everyday, we are bombarded with advertisements of good funeral packages and phone numbers of the right people to call in the event you die.

You wonder if you will even be capable of making phone calls in that state. They do not care. All they want is your money, dead or alive. 

I say ‘dead or alive’ because these shysters will break everything down to you nicely, offering you attractive funeral plans for which you pay as little as E2 per day or whatever.

They are beaming those adverts to able-bodied men, women and children who still have their whole lives ahead of them. 

They want you to start planning for your funeral long before you get diabetes or are start walking around crime-ridden areas like Mbhuleni at night.

They want you to pay and pay and pay…long before you die.

When you die, they will make quick calculations and find that you had contributed at least E19 275 in total to their coffers over the years. 

Your reward? E10 000 as a lump sum for you to have a dignified funeral; well-serviced hearse to take you to the cemetery, clean-shaven and energetic young men to drive you there and set up the tent, a casket with bronze handles and more of the same. 

At the end of the day (or your life), you would have made a loss of over E9 000!

I have always had a problem with funeral undertakers – and the people who fall for their tricks hook, line and sinker. 

But seriously…why can’t everyone concentrate on having a healthy and rewarding life? Why should we only be concerned about funerals? Is death now more important than life?

Take these young men who drive around in Golf Velocity hatch-backs, for instance. 

We all know how they struggle to keep those cars clean by taking them to the carwash every other day (they would be caught dead washing the vehicles themselves). They struggle to have enough money for petrol but are always behind the steering wheel. 

They are putting up appearances, mostly to impress those impressionable girls and good-for-nothing women. Back home, they have very empty refrigerators. They neither have pots nor plates and the only thing in their cupboards are cockroaches. 

Even though they have several children from different mothers, most still live in their parents’ houses, making you wonder where they do the nasty business of procreation.

These young men could care less how they live. They have no ambition whatsoever but when the adverts for ‘dignified funeral plans’ come on while they watch TV, they sit up straight.

Having a grand funeral is all they live for. 

That is probably why funerals have become events where folks parade the latest fashion trends, turning up in expensive suits, shiny shoes and designer-label sunshades.

Many make sure they arrive in big shiny cars. 

They hire them from car-rental companies if they have to – anything for a dignified funeral.

Four young men from my village back in the bundus were abandoned by their father at a very young age. He never cared whether they went to school or not. He did not know what they had for supper on any given day and could care less what they wore.

Their mother decided to leave for South Africa where she had relatives.

She tried hard to scrape a dignified life for her children and they grew up to be respected citizens. Then their father back home died. They did not want to go to the funeral but relatives spent tens of Emalangeni worth of airtime convincing them. 

They decided to come but chose to arrive a few hours before the actual funeral.

This meant arriving late at night to join the loud and cheerful Zionists at the vigil. Yes, I said ‘cheerful.’

When time came for the funeral procession to proceed to the graveyard, everybody was given the chance to pay their last respects by getting a glimpse of the deceased lying ‘in state.’ 

That was the cue for the four young men, who seemed to have rehearsed their next move.

They ran towards the expensive coffin and started kicking it with their Nike trainers. They kicked it on the sides, jumped on it and kicked it again. It was about to crumble when community police arrived to calm them down. The gentlemen from the well-known funeral under-taker could only watch in dismay as their dignified funeral turned into a tragic circus. 

While kicking the coffin, the man’s sons were repeatedly shouting, “You fool, you failed to take us to school but had money for such an expensive coffin?” Then you say you want a dignified funeral? Get a life!

Source

Thoughts of a funeral-goer

I’m back. From the brink of death. And Lyme Regis.

It sounds dramatic but I really did think I was a goner. And Charles tells me that so too did many readers of this blog. He had several emails asking him not to kill me off. I’d like to reassure those people that Charles doesn’t have my address in East Sheen, so the chances of him being able to kill me are remote.

To the gentleman who begged him not to ‘blog-snuff Lyra’: thank you. This is a worrying thought. However, Charles says that I’m safe from being blog-snuffed as long as I keep my posts interesting.

So let’s test his mettle by considering some statistics.

The Office for National Statistics recently published their first annual ‘Subjective Well-being Results.’ Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I am in most of the categories for the highest levels of happiness!

The happiest people are female, married, live in their own properties and are between the ages of 75 and 79. I would need only to move to the Shetland Islands and be Indian to score higher! There is a downside: women are more likely to be anxious. Which is true – I’m a worrier.

The other downside wasn’t mentioned. If you’re over 75, statistically you’re more likely to be dead next week than those people who are under 75. I made that up but it must be true. On the same day that the happiness statistics were released, the ONS published the Monthly Provisional Figures on Deaths. Which did nothing to help my anxiety levels.

But I was greatly uplifted by last week’s opening ceremony for the Olympic Games. It made me proud to be British – even if we are bonkers. Indeed, because we are bonkers. I gasped and smiled when Her Majesty the Queen appeared alongside James Bond. Which lady of a certain age wouldn’t die happy if she’d experienced a few moments with Daniel Craig?

Next week, if I’m still alive and I haven’t been blog-snuffed, I hope to report on a funeral – ideally the funeral of a complete stranger who has lived a long and happy life. Daisy and Barry insist on coming too so that they can look after me and make sure I don’t over-do it. They’re not keen for me to visit a natural burial ground just yet. But I’m working on it.

They’re worriers too.

The Good Funeral Guide
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