Michael D. Davis

Okay, first of all, the Toledo Mayor does read my column. Who would have guessed? Well, I guess if you’re reading this Mr. Mayor, I hope ya have a good day, or whatever; who cares?

Anyway, I promised ya a funeral story for this week, and I will tell ya one, but first of all ya gotta realize funerals are always hilarious. I have been to several funerals, and every one had its moments of humor. My theory for this is simple, because it’s essentially the same situation with weddings, church, and I can only assume state ordered executions. Whenever you get a group of people together and tell them to be on their best behavior, something will go wrong.

Yeah, everyone is supposed to be silent and sad, focusing on Ol’ Uncle Morty at the front of the room, taking a nap in the pine box. That’s all well and good until Aunt Edna, who’s been deaf since 2006 and incontinent since 1994, cuts the cheese so loud the foundation cracks. All that, silent, be on your best behavior, idiocy goes right out the window. At least for me, it does. I don’t know; maybe you could have kept your composure after Aunt Edna cracked a rat.

Okay, now here’s my story. So, about 10 years ago now, my Great Aunt Jean passed away. She was a nice woman; I remember her fondly, but her funeral was ridiculous. Jean lived down in southern Iowa, nearly on the Missouri border. I have no opinions on this area of the state or the half-horse town that was our destination, but we did have to ask that banjo kid from Deliverance for directions.

We finally arrived at a small church and walked in to find a seat before the funeral kicked off. We were dressed in black, wearing our best duds to be respectful. This made us stand out a bit. No one else seemed to really dress up for the event. Camo, Carhartt, and ball caps were more the standard. This, however, didn’t come close to what the preacher wore. The man’s top half was what you’d suspect; a black shirt and the like, but then ya saw his bottom half. Shorts, and if I’m remembering right, they had flowers on them.

Ya may be sayin’, “Hey, that ain’t too bad. People can wear what they want. That’s all?” Well, no, it ain’t. So me, my Ma, my Dad, and my Sister all sat in the very back row of chairs. We were quiet; we were behavin’. The shorts-wearing preacher starts up his lecture, and my Dad decides he needs to use the bathroom.

The Old Man silently gets up and saunters over to this door about 15 feet away. My Dad closed the door and then started to go to the bathroom. The thing is, this was a very small church, and the walls were paper thin. So, as my father started to relieve himself only a few feet away, the sounds of this activity echoed through the building, being heard by every person attending my Great Aunt Jean’s funeral.

I simply do not know what my father had to drink that day, but from the sounds of it, he had guzzled gallons of it. The preacher kept speaking, even raising his voice a bit in battle with the noise my father was making. People turned around in their seats to glance back towards the bathroom as if to say what moron is peeing so loudly in the middle of the funeral.

Eventually, my father came out of the bathroom. He silently walked over and sat down, oblivious as to what just happened. He looked over at Me, my Ma, and My Sister, who were trying to contain our laughter by any means necessary, and wondered why we were making a racket, giggling during the funeral.