The Funeral Planner (16 page)

I try to be respectful, but I can’t help but flinch at the fact that the Rabbi never even knew Uncle Sam. I watch the service from the front row with my family members. We had all decided to forgo the private family room. The place is dominated by black; everyone is in his or her best black—except me. I wear the muted-yellow sweater over the neatly tailored black pants Eve sent. On my sweater is pinned the black ribbon of Jewish custom indicating that one is in mourning for a relative in her immediate family. I glance behind me. Sierra’s in the back taping the service with her camera atop a tripod.

“Everyone, let’s all please rise for the Mourner’s Kaddish.” The Rabbi leads in prayer as the congregants, a melting pot of various faiths, do their best to mumble along.

I glance backward at the front door as people arrive, checking my watch.

“Are you expecting someone, dear?” whispers Eleanor.

“I keep thinking Uncle Sam’s going to show up any minute,” I whisper back.

“Me, too,” she says. “I know you’re going to miss having him so close to you.”

I nod and gently pat my purse where, unbeknownst to anyone else, Uncle Sam remains close by my side.

The prayer ends. The Rabbi motions for all to sit. “Before I continue, Samuel’s niece, Madison Banks, has something to share with us.”

I walk to the podium, feeling as if I’m floating because everything’s happening in a fog. As I register the horde of people who have come to pay respects to my uncle, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude and loss. My throat clams up. I feel Niagara Falls behind my eyeballs just looking for an outlet. I swallow hard to build a dam and suppress the flood.

“Thank you all for coming here today to honor the life of my uncle Sam. Now I know you’re all probably wondering why I’m wearing this. I’m, um, wearing yellow today because Uncle Sam always called me Sunshine. I’m wearing yellow because I am here not to mourn a death but to celebrate a life, for that is what Uncle Sam believed in and what he wanted. And he’s here to tell you that himself.”

I cue Sierra. A big screen comes down. A video projector whirs. Uncle Sam suddenly appears on screen, standing on his dock in a navy-blue pea coat, smiling at the camera. The congregation of mourners watch mesmerized, seeing him alive again.

“Thought you’d get rid of me so quick, huh?” he jokes.

People who knew Sam well emit chuckles, unsure whether it’s okay to laugh at a funeral.

“Well…” continues Uncle Sam, “if you’re all out there watching this, chances are…I’m not—at least not with you—maybe over you. At least, I hope it’s over…and not under.” More chuckles come from the crowd.

“Any laughs out there?” asks Uncle Sam. “If not, I owe you ten, but go see Richard Wright for that. After all the bad jokes I’ve had to put up with over the years, he must owe me a thousand dollars by now, so Richard, if you’re there and I’m not, deduct it from the balance you owe me…and then deduct that from the balance for the gathering today.”

Locals laugh. Richard Wright smiles and wipes a tear from his eye.

“Now, everyone, I want you to stop crying and start living,” instructs Uncle Sam. “And remember, to have a successful life all you need are three things—something to do, something to believe in and someone to love. It’s that simple. And if you don’t know how, well, watch the video and I’ll show you.”

The camera angle shifts to Uncle Sam standing in a room inside his cottage. “One thing that’s really fun to do in life is start a collection. Collect something. Could be coins, cars or lovers. Me? I collect fishing lures.” The camera cuts to a montage of Sam’s fishing lure collection. “And I collect memories. The rest of this video is a demonstration of what collecting memories is all about, because memory is what shapes our identity, and that’s the most important thing of all.”

What follows is a ten-minute montage of video, both old and new, still photos and voice-over, dialogue and interviews with friends and family over a gentle soundtrack of original music from Ubiquitous Music.

The video reveals Uncle Sam buying a framed leaf-art design from Andy and proudly hanging it up in his house; a montage of Uncle Sam as a child and young man. There are images of Sam with Fisherman Joe and his team of employees standing under a sign that reads “Banks Baits—baits you can bank on.” There’s Sam horsing around with a young Charlie and young Eleanor on a pontoon boat on Clark Lake; Sam playing catch with Daniel and giving him his first book of poetry by Robert Frost; Sam wearing a tall felt hat that says
Stansbury
on it as he introduces me at the age of seven in my pseudo-Broadway debut of
Stansbury
on the lawn at the lake house.

I do a double take, wondering how Sierra found all this extra footage and managed to cut it all together. I glance at her. She relays a knowing nod of sweetness.

The Lights Out life bio video manages to capture life’s rituals from birth to graduation ceremonies, from holiday cookouts and family weddings, to the pleasures of solitude and crowded spectator sports. Interspersed throughout the timeline of memories are Uncle Sam’s comments about life and a lesson on how to whistle, ending with him in silhouette by the lake whistling “Fishing Free.”

He winks at the camera. “Now I want you all to do something fun, make a memory, and don’t waste another day feeling bad. It may look like the lights went out, but really, they’re just getting turned on…in another room. Have a beee-utiful day!”

I cue a teenager backstage and as the video screen goes up, the old high school theater lights overhead fade up on stage with hues of bright yellow causing the urn and fishing paraphernalia to glitter like gold.

The congregation sways between tears of laughter and tears of sadness, not sure whether to applaud or not. Someone in the back starts clapping and shouts, “He’d want the applause, man!” And everyone joins in, applauding a life well lived. Sierra gives me the thumbs-up sign. I grin the way Uncle Sam would.

“That was beautiful,” says Eleanor to me.

Charlie nods. “I think you just initiated a new ritual.”

Daniel sobs. Andy turns to Rebecca. “Uncle Sam did all those things, Mom? Wow!”

“Yes, honey. He accomplished a lot and he enjoyed every moment of it.”

I take the stage again. “Thank you, on behalf of Uncle Sam.” I wait until they simmer down and continue. “People dear to us usually have a signature or trademark they carry or do. Sometimes it’s a hat or the kind of cologne they wear. Uncle Sam’s was whistling to the tune of “Fishing Free.” Finding a recording was difficult because the LP is out of print and it has yet to be published on a CD. But my uncle wanted the song to be heard today and so, without further ado, I present to you…Mr. Maurice LeSarde.”

Maurice LeSarde marches down the aisle and leaps onto the stage. He smiles quietly and politely addresses the crowd. “That is one great guy and one great fan.” Everyone laughs. Maurice looks at the urn and says,“This is for you, Sam.” He then belts out an unbelievably beautiful a ccapella rendition of “Fishing Free.” The audience is in awe. Maurice concludes to a standing ovation.

Andy grins from ear to ear. “I’ll never forget Uncle Sam, Mom.”

Rebecca smiles at me and mouths,
Bravo.

“Thank you, Maurice,” I say. He steps to the side. I address the shell-shocked mourners. “In honor of Uncle Sam, we have, uh…funeral favors. Everyone gets a Moonglow jig fishing lure and a whistle. Moonglow jigs are specifically for ice fishing because they glow in the dark, which is a nice metaphor for keeping Uncle Sam’s spirit glowing in our hearts and minds forever. And the whistle, well, anytime you want to recall his memory, just blow. Attached to each of your Moonglow jigs is an invitation with directions to join us in the continual celebration of Samuel Banks’s life during shiva, which takes place now, at his cottage on Clark Lake. You’re all invited to participate in some ice fishing, and afterward, we’re going to cook the fish we catch and tell Uncle Sam stories…over shots of whiskey.”

The congregation cheers. Maurice grins. “Well, I’m sticking around. I want to get to know my greatest fan, even if it is belatedly. The whiskey doesn’t sound too bad, either.”

I nod in appreciation. “Rabbi, back to you.”

Rabbi Levin stands before the crowd. “Thank you, Maddy. I must say this is the most…unique funeral I’ve ever participated in. I’d like to conclude by reminding all of you that even as we gather here today to acknowledge the passing of Samuel Banks, I encourage you to reflect on his parting words of wisdom, to remember him in your hearts, and to know that you’ve been transformed into a better person for having known him. God bless.”

As the crowd disperses, Daniel murmurs to Rebecca, “I think this is a blasphemous display of disrespect.”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “You would. You like to live in doom and gloom, but some of us like the idea of remembering the departed not just with a smile, but the ceremony around their passing with one, too. I know it’s a novel idea for you, Daniel, but try.”

Daniel huffs. “What do you think, Mom?”

“I agree with Rebecca. I told you, I want rugelah and a klezmer band when I go.”

“I think it’s…unusual,” states Charlie. “But that’s Maddy. Uncle Sam did say he wanted that song sung and she made it happen. She’s definitely resourceful, your sister, definitely resourceful.”

* * *

The cottage buzzes with mourners. I designate five small ice-fishing circles with Uncle Sam’s jigging rods, augers and skimmers. People skim the ice from the holes. There are plenty of buckets to sit on and plenty of Coleman lanterns underneath to keep everyone warm. Ice tents will break the wind if it kicks up again, though for now, the sun shines low in the sky and the wind is on hiatus.

Sierra and I watch as roughly sixty people from the service take to the ice. Among them are Andy and Rebecca, Charlie and Eleanor, and even Maurice LeSarde, who has become chummy with Rabbi Levin.

Richard Wright approaches. “Beee-utiful tribute, Miss Madison Banks.” I blink shyly back at him, the way Uncle Sam used to do.

“Thanks, Mr. Wright.”

“Call me Richard,” he says. “Think I can get me a copy of that video tribute to remember him by? I’m happy to pay for it.”

“Sure, but you don’t have to pay for it.”

“I want to. Tell me what I owe you and I’ll deduct it from the funeral bill, along with the cost of those bad jokes,” he chortles. “Well, I know Sam would want me to get out on the ice and catch a couple of bass for him, so I’ll see you in a few.”

Sierra turns to me. “Gee, Maddy, you could make DVDs and give them away as funeral favors or sell them and donate the money to a charity in the name of the departed.”

“You’re starting to sound like me.” I smile. “Come on, let’s go fishing. Got the camera?”

The two of us capture the unfolding scene on ice. People laugh, trying to catch a fish or two, shooting back whiskey to keep warm, and all the while talking about the video tribute, the fishing lures lighting up on cue and seeing Maurice LeSarde in person! And most of all, how much Uncle Sam would have loved it, too.

Andy shouts with glee, “I caught one!” Richard Wright helps him haul in a large bass. Sierra catches the excitement on tape.

A medium-built dark-skinned man of sixty with thick jet-black hair approaches me. He looks familiar but I can’t place him.

“Hi,” he says. “That was a beautiful tribute. I came from up north to remember your uncle. I knew him when I first started out in the fishing lure business. I’m Joe.”

“You’re Joe—Fisherman Joe?” I ask, putting it all together.

He nods.

“It’s really great to meet you. Uncle Sam’s story about you has been a morality compass for me my whole life.”

Joe smiles. “Sam was a good man. He always kept his promises, even when they hurt. When he had financial troubles, he still paid me what he promised—”

Maurice LeSarde interrupts, “Madison, excuse me, but I have to go now. When my time’s up, I want you to do my memorial service. And thanks again for putting me together with Ubiquitous Music and for the opportunity to really get to know your uncle, even though it was, you know, after the fact.”

“Thank you so much for making it. I know Uncle Sam is smiling.”

“Goodbye,” he says.

“No. No ‘goodbye.’ ‘See ya later’ will do.”

“Okay.” He pauses, and then says, “See ya later.”

Rabbi Levin interrupts the life celebration by cupping his hands to his mouth. “Let’s all please gather round!”

I watch everyone huddle over one of the holes in the ice as the Rabbi leads the prayer for the burial of the dead. “As per the wishes of Sam Banks, we lay him to rest in the place he was most comfortable, here on Clark Lake.”

Rabbi Levin hands the urn to Charlie, who gets ready to pour Uncle Sam into the lake. I duck out of sight, slipping behind the crowd. This is one ritual I don’t want to acknowledge.

The burial ends and everyone gathers inside the cottage around the fireplace to eat fresh-cooked bass seasoned with a little cayenne pepper, the way Uncle Sam liked it.

I lead a circle of people sitting Indian-style around the fireplace in the living room. I blow a whistle. “Okay, Rebecca’s turn.” A bottle of whiskey is passed to her.

She swallows the now-ritualized shot before speaking. “Well, I remember when Uncle Sam took me fishing for the first time. He taught me how to stick a worm on a lure…and I fainted.” Everyone laughs. “Ever since then, he would tease me about worms. One day he bought me a big stuffed animal shaped like a worm. I was thirty-two!”