| Biographical Non-Fiction posted January 7, 2022 |
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A Funeral
Standing Ovations
by Terry Broxson
Sometimes things happen that can change one's perspective of life in general and people in particular.
Her name was Irene. She was my wife's aunt. She died at the age of 87. It was in August, and we were driving through the back roads of East Texas to get to Beaumont, where Irene lived and where the funeral was being held.
I had known Irene for thirty years. For the last twenty-eight years, she was a widow and had one son, Paul, adopted as a baby. My wife, Zoe, would tell everyone that the best-looking member of their family was adopted. That was saying something because Zoe was a looker!
Zoe's family had a yearly reunion on the Texas Rivera with about twenty to thirty folks coming. Irene thought she was the matriarch, the last member of her generation and all. Most of us just ignored Irene. We thought she was bossy, a mean pain in the rear. Zoe was the exception. She said Irene always treated her nicely as a kid.
I said to Zoe, "This funeral is going to be small with too much preaching. And it will be ninety-nine degrees with ninety-five percent humidity." Turns out I was right about the temperature and humidity.
The funeral did have a little preaching. After all, she was a member in good standing with the Methodist Church. There were two hundred people there. Among the attendees were the Mayor, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and the Director of the Community Theatre. Each of these folks had something to say.
I had something to learn.
Irene never had more than two nickels to rub together. I found out that day her house had been rebuilt as a community service project by Home Depot. She had told the mayor, "Why me; I am nothing special?"
The President of the Chamber of Commerce told how she had become a volunteer with the Chamber and volunteered to serve as an ambassador for any occasion. A ribbon-cutting for a new building, she was there. A new tattoo parlor, she was there. A photo op, she was there in front. If food was served, she was there in front.
She was forcing herself onto the stage of life.
The Director of the Community Theater talked about how she became a member of the theater troop. She could not act. She was a terrible dancer. She had a screechy, high-pitched voice, not good on the ears.
Most of the plays the theater did were musicals. She auditioned for every one. She always sang "Good Night, Irene," a very popular song by the Weavers in the early 1950s. The director said she was so bad the rest of the actors would sing along with her in the audition to drown out the sound. But she did get a spot in the back of the chorus line. On other occasions, she would be in a crowd scene. Never a singing part, rarely a speaking part. She made every performance and every cast party.
Every funeral I had ever attended ended in prayer. Not this one. Two hundred people stood applauding and singing, "Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, we'll see you in our dreams." She forced herself onto the stage of life.
There should be more standing ovations at funerals for people like her.
Non-Fiction Writing Contest contest entry
Sometimes things happen that can change one's perspective of life in general and people in particular.
Her name was Irene. She was my wife's aunt. She died at the age of 87. It was in August, and we were driving through the back roads of East Texas to get to Beaumont, where Irene lived and where the funeral was being held.
I had known Irene for thirty years. For the last twenty-eight years, she was a widow and had one son, Paul, adopted as a baby. My wife, Zoe, would tell everyone that the best-looking member of their family was adopted. That was saying something because Zoe was a looker!
Zoe's family had a yearly reunion on the Texas Rivera with about twenty to thirty folks coming. Irene thought she was the matriarch, the last member of her generation and all. Most of us just ignored Irene. We thought she was bossy, a mean pain in the rear. Zoe was the exception. She said Irene always treated her nicely as a kid.
I said to Zoe, "This funeral is going to be small with too much preaching. And it will be ninety-nine degrees with ninety-five percent humidity." Turns out I was right about the temperature and humidity.
The funeral did have a little preaching. After all, she was a member in good standing with the Methodist Church. There were two hundred people there. Among the attendees were the Mayor, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and the Director of the Community Theatre. Each of these folks had something to say.
I had something to learn.
Irene never had more than two nickels to rub together. I found out that day her house had been rebuilt as a community service project by Home Depot. She had told the mayor, "Why me; I am nothing special?"
The President of the Chamber of Commerce told how she had become a volunteer with the Chamber and volunteered to serve as an ambassador for any occasion. A ribbon-cutting for a new building, she was there. A new tattoo parlor, she was there. A photo op, she was there in front. If food was served, she was there in front.
She was forcing herself onto the stage of life.
The Director of the Community Theater talked about how she became a member of the theater troop. She could not act. She was a terrible dancer. She had a screechy, high-pitched voice, not good on the ears.
Most of the plays the theater did were musicals. She auditioned for every one. She always sang "Good Night, Irene," a very popular song by the Weavers in the early 1950s. The director said she was so bad the rest of the actors would sing along with her in the audition to drown out the sound. But she did get a spot in the back of the chorus line. On other occasions, she would be in a crowd scene. Never a singing part, rarely a speaking part. She made every performance and every cast party.
Every funeral I had ever attended ended in prayer. Not this one. Two hundred people stood applauding and singing, "Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, we'll see you in our dreams." She forced herself onto the stage of life.
There should be more standing ovations at funerals for people like her.
Her name was Irene. She was my wife's aunt. She died at the age of 87. It was in August, and we were driving through the back roads of East Texas to get to Beaumont, where Irene lived and where the funeral was being held.
I had known Irene for thirty years. For the last twenty-eight years, she was a widow and had one son, Paul, adopted as a baby. My wife, Zoe, would tell everyone that the best-looking member of their family was adopted. That was saying something because Zoe was a looker!
Zoe's family had a yearly reunion on the Texas Rivera with about twenty to thirty folks coming. Irene thought she was the matriarch, the last member of her generation and all. Most of us just ignored Irene. We thought she was bossy, a mean pain in the rear. Zoe was the exception. She said Irene always treated her nicely as a kid.
I said to Zoe, "This funeral is going to be small with too much preaching. And it will be ninety-nine degrees with ninety-five percent humidity." Turns out I was right about the temperature and humidity.
The funeral did have a little preaching. After all, she was a member in good standing with the Methodist Church. There were two hundred people there. Among the attendees were the Mayor, President of the Chamber of Commerce, and the Director of the Community Theatre. Each of these folks had something to say.
I had something to learn.
Irene never had more than two nickels to rub together. I found out that day her house had been rebuilt as a community service project by Home Depot. She had told the mayor, "Why me; I am nothing special?"
The President of the Chamber of Commerce told how she had become a volunteer with the Chamber and volunteered to serve as an ambassador for any occasion. A ribbon-cutting for a new building, she was there. A new tattoo parlor, she was there. A photo op, she was there in front. If food was served, she was there in front.
She was forcing herself onto the stage of life.
The Director of the Community Theater talked about how she became a member of the theater troop. She could not act. She was a terrible dancer. She had a screechy, high-pitched voice, not good on the ears.
Most of the plays the theater did were musicals. She auditioned for every one. She always sang "Good Night, Irene," a very popular song by the Weavers in the early 1950s. The director said she was so bad the rest of the actors would sing along with her in the audition to drown out the sound. But she did get a spot in the back of the chorus line. On other occasions, she would be in a crowd scene. Never a singing part, rarely a speaking part. She made every performance and every cast party.
Every funeral I had ever attended ended in prayer. Not this one. Two hundred people stood applauding and singing, "Good night, Irene, good night, Irene, we'll see you in our dreams." She forced herself onto the stage of life.
There should be more standing ovations at funerals for people like her.
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