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Authors: Kathy Dunnehoff
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back in Minnesota, this one tested positive for steroids. We stood, taking it in, and the sweep of sidewalk alone was wide enough for a semi-truck to drive on. With the outside shaped a little like a coliseum, I wondered if the architect hadn't been aware of that whole feed the Christians to the lions thing.
I looked over at Mom, glad she'd sprung for something new when we'd shopped. God knew she deserved it. She'd gotten a black jacket with three-quarter sleeves, turned back and cuffed. It showed off her charm bracelet, looking at home in California, and went well with her floral skirt and light hair.
I'd gotten a black v neck sheath because we'd found a sale on silk duopioni, not that I'd known what that was. Mom did. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but after the gingham bathing suit fiasco, I had to wonder about the cosmic joke of my mother and I wearing fabric made from the rough silk of entangled cocoons.
I was not going to think about Brian Keller ever again.
We entered the over-sized doors thirty minutes early, naturally. We had Midwest punctuality going for us and so got a seat towards the front. I listened to the organ music, expecting Nearer My God to Thee and getting the Eagle's Hotel California .
It was going to be an interesting funeral.
I looked around and decided the inside wasn't any more comforting than the outside had been. The ceiling with its curves of sculptural lights reminded me of a Star Trek episode where they'd beamed onto an unfriendly space ship. But to soften the modern cool of that, someone had added fiberglass pillars, two rows that divided the church into three sections of pews and blocked views among the congregation.
Everyone knew that people watching was a Sunday highlight. I thought of the hours I'd entertained myself growing up. Even though I knew everyone in the church family, there was always something new to see. Once my brother and sister and I hit the mother-load when Agnes Detwiler tucked the back of her skirt into her pantyhose.
She swayed down the aisle to the front pew, and I mean swayed because Agnes Detwiler had some serious junk in her trunk. It was silent save for the grippy sound of her crepe soled shoes. Silent until I lost it, followed into hysterical laughter by my siblings and escorted out by our mother.
I could only hope for something that entertaining to happen, but I knew I'd be there for Mom, we'd leave for the airport, and by the end of the day, I'd be back in Minnesota as if nothing had ever happened. I ignored how depressing that sounded to me and watched some really beautiful people take their seats around us. In direct contrast to our early arrival, they began to arrive minutes before the funeral was supposed to begin, but it was a crowd worthy of a Hollywood legend. There were some contemporaries of Van, and I wondered if mom would recognize any of them.
The men wore dark, lean suits. The women favored bandage style dresses that made me wonder how blood circulated to their organs. They all seemed to think nothing of wearing their sunglasses indoors, and I hadn't even brought a pair for outdoors. Some of the women wore huge ones, and I felt a certain cattiness wondering if they were shielding their grief from on-lookers or covering up the aftermath of plastic surgery.
I didn't need to wonder long.
After the minister shared Van's obituary, which read like a list of professional achievements, he invited folks to share. And when the women began to stand, it was clear they could only be recovering from cosmetic procedures because they were not struggling with grief.
It was awkward in a way I'd never experienced, and I'd been to Henry Kaufman's funeral and get off my lawn you goddamn kids Kaufman had been universally hated in my town. Still, even at that funeral, folks said a few positive things. He did keep a lovely lawn.
So far the only good thing said about Van Baron was that he had nice hair. Oh, and it was real. That addition was important
I looked over at Mom, glad she'd sprung for something new when we'd shopped. God knew she deserved it. She'd gotten a black jacket with three-quarter sleeves, turned back and cuffed. It showed off her charm bracelet, looking at home in California, and went well with her floral skirt and light hair.
I'd gotten a black v neck sheath because we'd found a sale on silk duopioni, not that I'd known what that was. Mom did. At the time I didn't think anything of it, but after the gingham bathing suit fiasco, I had to wonder about the cosmic joke of my mother and I wearing fabric made from the rough silk of entangled cocoons.
I was not going to think about Brian Keller ever again.
We entered the over-sized doors thirty minutes early, naturally. We had Midwest punctuality going for us and so got a seat towards the front. I listened to the organ music, expecting Nearer My God to Thee and getting the Eagle's Hotel California .
It was going to be an interesting funeral.
I looked around and decided the inside wasn't any more comforting than the outside had been. The ceiling with its curves of sculptural lights reminded me of a Star Trek episode where they'd beamed onto an unfriendly space ship. But to soften the modern cool of that, someone had added fiberglass pillars, two rows that divided the church into three sections of pews and blocked views among the congregation.
Everyone knew that people watching was a Sunday highlight. I thought of the hours I'd entertained myself growing up. Even though I knew everyone in the church family, there was always something new to see. Once my brother and sister and I hit the mother-load when Agnes Detwiler tucked the back of her skirt into her pantyhose.
She swayed down the aisle to the front pew, and I mean swayed because Agnes Detwiler had some serious junk in her trunk. It was silent save for the grippy sound of her crepe soled shoes. Silent until I lost it, followed into hysterical laughter by my siblings and escorted out by our mother.
I could only hope for something that entertaining to happen, but I knew I'd be there for Mom, we'd leave for the airport, and by the end of the day, I'd be back in Minnesota as if nothing had ever happened. I ignored how depressing that sounded to me and watched some really beautiful people take their seats around us. In direct contrast to our early arrival, they began to arrive minutes before the funeral was supposed to begin, but it was a crowd worthy of a Hollywood legend. There were some contemporaries of Van, and I wondered if mom would recognize any of them.
The men wore dark, lean suits. The women favored bandage style dresses that made me wonder how blood circulated to their organs. They all seemed to think nothing of wearing their sunglasses indoors, and I hadn't even brought a pair for outdoors. Some of the women wore huge ones, and I felt a certain cattiness wondering if they were shielding their grief from on-lookers or covering up the aftermath of plastic surgery.
I didn't need to wonder long.
After the minister shared Van's obituary, which read like a list of professional achievements, he invited folks to share. And when the women began to stand, it was clear they could only be recovering from cosmetic procedures because they were not struggling with grief.
It was awkward in a way I'd never experienced, and I'd been to Henry Kaufman's funeral and get off my lawn you goddamn kids Kaufman had been universally hated in my town. Still, even at that funeral, folks said a few positive things. He did keep a lovely lawn.
So far the only good thing said about Van Baron was that he had nice hair. Oh, and it was real. That addition was important
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