Saturdays with Grandma

My father's mother had a particular fondness for funerals.  She read the obituary page on a daily basis in an effort to keep current on who was deceased in her community.  My sister tells me that she also reads the obituaries on a regular basis.  She's a middle child and has always walked to the beat of her own drum.

When we were growing up, we spent a great deal of time with my paternal grandmother.  She lived in town and we could walk or bike over to her home in a matter of minutes.  My mother's parents lived in the country and it was a 20 mile drive.  We saw them frequently but we saw my dad's mom daily.

She didn't want to be called grandma so we referred to her as Mama Reid.  Now that I've reached 51, I understand.  I'm thinking about asking everyone to call me Young Thing.

On Saturday's, the daily newspaper arrived in the early afternoon.  Mama Reid would read the paper with a particular focus on the obituary page.  Then it was time for our Saturday afternoon ritual.  She'd load my sister, brother and me into her aqua blue Chevy and we'd head for the hot dog shack. Sticking our arms out of the open car windows to catch the force of the wind, we were filled with the bottomless joy that only exists in childhood.

The hot dog shack was actually part of a service station.  You could get gas and food.  The hotdogs were a southern delight of chili, onions, mustard, and coleslaw washed down with an ice cold NuGrape soda, and followed by a moon pie for desert.  Mama Reid always joined us in this repast except her beverage of choice was RC Cola.  As the hot dog shack had no seating area, our feast was eaten sitting in the car.

With all of us well fed, it was time for the next stop, one of the local funeral homes.  Mama Reid would select our destination based on the obituaries that she had read earlier.  It didn't matter whether or not she knew the deceased; her selection criteria was a bit more macabre. If there had been a particularly bad car accident where the victim required extraordinary reconstructive skills from the undertaker in order to make him or her presentable for viewing, it was certain to make her visitation list.

She never made us come into the funeral home, always giving us the option to remain in the car until she returned.  My sister and brother wisely chose this option; I, on the other hand, let curiosity get the best of me.  

Funeral homes are unnaturally quiet places.  You step through the door and it's as if all sound has been suddenly sucked from the universe.  It was a bright summer day when I elected to follow my grandmother into the funeral home.  When the door shut behind me, I suspected that I had made a big mistake. 

We weren't the only visitors and Mama Reid immediately entered into conversation with the other two ladies who stood staring at the woman in the casket.

"She looks real good, very natural," observed one of the women.

My grandmother nodded in agreement, "You can't even tell that her head was torn clean off in that accident."