Read Online Losing Mum and Pup by Christopher Buckley - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Buckley
Ads: Link
Mum. Among those hundreds of photos, there wasn’t one bad one. She made
love to every camera that came her way. Well, it was probably good therapy in the end. By the morning of the memorial service,
I had—quite literally—cried myself dry.
Some people, no matter how dear and good their hearts, just aren’t adept at eulogies; still, they have to be asked to give
them. This presents the memorial service impresario with a conundrum: how to square his obligation to the bereaved with the
dramatic requirements of the service. And this can be tricky.
One of the people I asked to give one—a longtime friend of Mum’s—said he would be honored to do so, then phoned me a day or
two later to ask a bit sheep-ishly if I might provide “a few notes” to help him. I sensed this might be code for “Could you
write it for me?” I was happy to oblige.
I’d asked my daughter, Caitlin, if she might speak. Cat was nineteen and in the throes of approaching final exams, and very
pressed for time, so I volunteered to do some talking points for her. I sat down during a train ride to sketch these out and
found myself quickly and utterly stymied. I couldn’t think of a single warm and fuzzy grandmother anecdote. (The Skakel story,
warm and fuzzy as it was, might—I felt—not be quite appropriate to the occasion.) I phoned Cat from the train and with genuine
pain in my heart said,
Honey, you don’t have to do this. She loved you in her own way, but let’s face it—she was not a hands-on granny.
Dear, sweet Cat said,
No, no, Dad, I want to do it.
This somehow liberated me, and I was able to give her some ideas, the gist of which was that while “Nan” may not have been
a typical grandmother, she was never (God knows) dull. She had taught Cat such useful skills as never buttering your bread
in midair; taught her, age four, to air kiss, telling her that this would come in handy when she grew up and moved to New
York City. Cat’s eulogy ended up being the high point of the entire show. She ended it with blowing an air kiss to her Nan.
It was a total home run. I did little after the service other than kvell and accept compliments on behalf of my dazzling daughter.
Anna Wintour of
Vogue
was so impressed, she offered Cat a job. This was very generous of Ms. Wintour and presented Cat with an interesting dilemma
inasmuch as
The Devil Wears Prada
had just opened.
Neither Pup nor I trusted ourselves to get through a eulogy. He wrote one for the program. Mine took the form of the memorial
service itself, along with my weepy PowerPoint show.
The key to eulogist wrangling—bear this in mind when you find yourself doing it—is
Draconian enforcement of the time limit!
In fact, to heck with Draco: Imagine yourself as the Time-Limit Nazi. This may seem an obvious point, but you’ve probably
attended one or two funerals and memorial services where the fine-hammered steel of woe was turned to Brillo by incontinent
eulogists. This species can be easily spotted: They almost never prepare ahead of time, preferring instead to “go with the
moment” or to “speak from the heart.” They will then prattle on—from the heart—for at least twenty minutes, causing those
in attendance to forget all about the deceased and start praying that a dislodged gargoyle will fall from above and smite
the speaker. *
A twenty-minute eulogy, unless composed by a) William Shakespeare, b) Winston Churchill, or c) Mark Twain, is sixteen minutes
too long. Technical note: It is better to tell a eulogist to speak for four minutes, not five minutes. “Five minutes” to the
modern ear sounds like “around five minutes,” whereas “four minutes” means “four minutes.” Just before the service began,
I said to my eulogists (including Henry Kissinger), “I have snipers positioned up there”—pointing to the temple—“with orders
to shoot to kill anyone who goes over four minutes.” I smiled as I said
love to every camera that came her way. Well, it was probably good therapy in the end. By the morning of the memorial service,
I had—quite literally—cried myself dry.
Some people, no matter how dear and good their hearts, just aren’t adept at eulogies; still, they have to be asked to give
them. This presents the memorial service impresario with a conundrum: how to square his obligation to the bereaved with the
dramatic requirements of the service. And this can be tricky.
One of the people I asked to give one—a longtime friend of Mum’s—said he would be honored to do so, then phoned me a day or
two later to ask a bit sheep-ishly if I might provide “a few notes” to help him. I sensed this might be code for “Could you
write it for me?” I was happy to oblige.
I’d asked my daughter, Caitlin, if she might speak. Cat was nineteen and in the throes of approaching final exams, and very
pressed for time, so I volunteered to do some talking points for her. I sat down during a train ride to sketch these out and
found myself quickly and utterly stymied. I couldn’t think of a single warm and fuzzy grandmother anecdote. (The Skakel story,
warm and fuzzy as it was, might—I felt—not be quite appropriate to the occasion.) I phoned Cat from the train and with genuine
pain in my heart said,
Honey, you don’t have to do this. She loved you in her own way, but let’s face it—she was not a hands-on granny.
Dear, sweet Cat said,
No, no, Dad, I want to do it.
This somehow liberated me, and I was able to give her some ideas, the gist of which was that while “Nan” may not have been
a typical grandmother, she was never (God knows) dull. She had taught Cat such useful skills as never buttering your bread
in midair; taught her, age four, to air kiss, telling her that this would come in handy when she grew up and moved to New
York City. Cat’s eulogy ended up being the high point of the entire show. She ended it with blowing an air kiss to her Nan.
It was a total home run. I did little after the service other than kvell and accept compliments on behalf of my dazzling daughter.
Anna Wintour of
Vogue
was so impressed, she offered Cat a job. This was very generous of Ms. Wintour and presented Cat with an interesting dilemma
inasmuch as
The Devil Wears Prada
had just opened.
Neither Pup nor I trusted ourselves to get through a eulogy. He wrote one for the program. Mine took the form of the memorial
service itself, along with my weepy PowerPoint show.
The key to eulogist wrangling—bear this in mind when you find yourself doing it—is
Draconian enforcement of the time limit!
In fact, to heck with Draco: Imagine yourself as the Time-Limit Nazi. This may seem an obvious point, but you’ve probably
attended one or two funerals and memorial services where the fine-hammered steel of woe was turned to Brillo by incontinent
eulogists. This species can be easily spotted: They almost never prepare ahead of time, preferring instead to “go with the
moment” or to “speak from the heart.” They will then prattle on—from the heart—for at least twenty minutes, causing those
in attendance to forget all about the deceased and start praying that a dislodged gargoyle will fall from above and smite
the speaker. *
A twenty-minute eulogy, unless composed by a) William Shakespeare, b) Winston Churchill, or c) Mark Twain, is sixteen minutes
too long. Technical note: It is better to tell a eulogist to speak for four minutes, not five minutes. “Five minutes” to the
modern ear sounds like “around five minutes,” whereas “four minutes” means “four minutes.” Just before the service began,
I said to my eulogists (including Henry Kissinger), “I have snipers positioned up there”—pointing to the temple—“with orders
to shoot to kill anyone who goes over four minutes.” I smiled as I said
Similar Books
