Archive

Rainy Days and Mondays


Rainy Days & Mondays Always Get Me Down. Today is Wednesday and it’s raining. But there aren’t any cool songs about Wednesday, so I’ll stick with the Monday theme. Who wrote that song? It was whoses. Whoses is my plural for two. Anna Spencer and Kathryn Williams cowrote it. I’ll bet you’ve never heard of them. I hadn’t either until I Googled it. You’re probably familiar with it if you were a child of the 60s and 70s because it was made a hit by The Carpenters.

It’s rainy days like this that I am cooped up in the house and have time to reflect on odd things like that. And the vernacular whoses would have been a term an old buddy and I would have used to denote something plural regarding more than one person.

He had a gift for things like that. His gift grated on the nerves of some folks and was given eye rolls by others, but I enjoyed it. He marched to the beat of a different drummer. If he marched, I sorta hopped along beside him. He was the kid that during second grade summer break read encyclopedias for fun, while I was running along creek banks and swinging from vines pretending to be Tarzan. Our friendship grew into something like that of the odd couple.

I cannot sing. But he trumped me in the not singing department. We were in the youth choir together at the Methodist Church. When he sang he was flatter than a pancake, but he made a joyful noise. Wasn’t that what we were supposed to do? No one wanted to stand by him because no matter how hard they tried to block him out they ended up singing just like him. I can remember the choir director with his head down, arms raised and gritting his teeth.

But I loved the guy. He was loyal to a fault. Plus, he had a cute little sister that I had a crush on.

He could come up with some of the dumbest jokes I’ve ever heard. It wasn’t that they weren’t funny. He made them funny because they weren’t funny and made absolutely no sense at all. And yet he persisted. My buddy wasn’t a quitter.

We once were locked up in a funeral home overnight. It was no accident. Another classmate’s father had passed away and the family asked if we would sit up with the deceased the night before the funeral. We were honored and accepted the invitation.

After the visitation, when the final guest and family member had left, the funeral director cornered us and told us we were welcome to use his office where he’d put on a fresh pot of coffee. Then he said he was going to lock the doors and he would see us bright and early the next morning.

It was called sitting up with the dead back then. We had heard of it, but it was our first time, and there was no rules or handbook to study on the subject before that undertaker walked out and locked us in.

As soon as he was gone we looked at each other, lost as Easter eggs. “What’ll we do now,” he asked.

It was a funeral home, so I whispered, “We probably need to go up front and sit by the body.”

He nodded. I haven’t mentioned that he was kinda long and lanky. When he walked his size 14 feet sorta pointed outward in different directions. I was smaller and skinner. I had hair back then. He had a crew-cut at that time.

We made our way down the aisle, stopped by the casket, made sure everything was as it should be and took our seats on the front row. We both put our heads down and said a prayer for the man and his family. Then we sat there.

We sat there a long, long time. Two teenagers sitting by a body in a funeral home at night. And we sat some more. Finally, he whispered, “Do you want to try some of that coffee?”

I nodded. Before we walked back to the office we stepped forward and checked on the deceased. Nothing had changed. So, we headed toward the coffee. It was only 9:30.

We sat in the office and drank. He was behind the desk with his size 14s propped upon the ink blotter. I was in a chair near the door watching for whatever might be lurking around the corner in a funeral home at night. There was nothing. We finished our coffees and walked down a little hall in search of a restroom. The first door we opened wasn’t the restroom. It was the casket display room.

Two teenagers inspecting the caskets in the display room at night. We had no idea there would have been more than just one type of casket. We marveled at the small pillows and fabrics. “I like the wooden one.”

“Nope. Not for me. What if there are termites down there? I want a steel one. Bronze, maybe.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

The bed of the caskets were soft. We didn’t crawl inside, but we felt them. After a few minutes inspecting the display room we wandered through another door in search of the restroom. It was dark in there. He felt along the wall searching for a light switch. “Click.” It wasn’t the restroom. It was the prep room.

There was a stainless-steel table, a shelf with bottles and jars. Tubes and more stainless-steel tools on what looked like a tray. “I don’t think this is the restroom.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get outa here.”

Eventually we found the restroom and got rid of the coffee.

We made our way back to the man in the front and stood there a minute. “Is it just me or does it look like he’s breathing?”

I looked really hard. “I’m not sure.” I looked at my buddy and said, “They can’t do that, can they?”

“I don’t think so.”

We sat back down on the front row. It was only midnight. It was a long, long night. We got to know each other pretty well as the hours clicked by. And if the man lying a few feet away was listening he probably got to know us pretty well, too. My buddy exhausted his portfolio of corny jokes and we probably dozed on and off a bit while sitting through the night.

Morning came and we heard the funeral director unlocking the front door. We stretched our aching muscles and made our way to the office after checking on our deceased friend up front. The funeral director told us our services were appreciated and we were free to go home and get some sleep. He didn’t have to say it twice.

We made it through high school together. He took the elevated classes. I took the mere basic. He went north to Ole Miss, but cannot remember what he wanted to major in. I went south to The University of Southern Mississippi. I thought I wanted to major in art. When he signed my yearbook, he wrote; Ricky, I hope you make a great artist. Just don’t draw too many feelthy peectures. He had a way with words.

I’m not sure what happened after that. I suppose you could just say that life happened to each of us. It took him one way and me another. On rare occasions our paths would cross. But those occasions were very rare. Still, I’d like to think that the bond we had growing up was still there.

A few years ago I learned that he had passed away. It dawned on me that I should have put more of an effort in keeping in touch with him. Regrets. We all have them. It’s only at times like that that they come up and smack you right in the face.

His funeral happened to have been on my only day off from the mill. I rose early that morning and hit the road about 4:30 in the morning. I made it back to my hometown in time to visit with his family and a few old friends before the service began.

Awkwardly, I noticed my buddy wasn’t there. At least there was no casket. I was afraid it would be impolite to ask of his whereabouts, so I kept my mouth shut. I assumed he had been cremated. The preacher that conducted the service did a fine job. As it turned out he was an old friend of both of ours and had been my buddy’s neighbor growing up.

After the service was over, I crawled into my car and made it back to Kentucky by bedtime. It had been a long day, but I felt good about being there even if he wasn’t. I remember thinking that I didn’t blame him. I don’t particularly want to go to my own funeral, either.

Rainy Days and Mondays Always Get Me Down. But good memories don’t. Anna Spencer and Kathryn Williams, I may not remember an hour from now, but old friends are forever. Thanks for being among my good memories, Dan. If St. Peter lets you in heaven’s choir, save me a spot next to you. I’m nearly deaf nowadays, so it won’t matter if you’re still a little flat.

_______________
Rick Algood
February 20, 2019

Archive


Return to eAlgood.com